Warcraft: A True Story That Never Happened
by Rowan Seven
Summary: [Cenarion Circle Server] Members of the Freelancers guild learn that there are some quests they'd be better off not accepting.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Freelancers -- A True Story That Never Happened

Author: Rowan Seven (Gorakinos)

Rating: PG-13

Teaser: The Freelancers learn that there are some contracts they'd be better off refusing.

Disclaimer: The following story is set in the world of Blizzard's Warcraft series. All characters, concepts, and environments are copyrights of their respective owners. I am not making any money off this piece of fiction. Information is used freely from the Warcraft games, books, and RPG series, and spoilers may be present in the following tale.

Author's Notes: The desire to write something about my main "World of Warcraft" character and the Freelancers guild on the U.S. Cenarion Circle server has been with me for some time now, and this idea suddenly appeared in my head with such intensity that I felt compelled to begin. To my fellow Freelancers, I hope you enjoy this tale. It has been a joy to play the game with you, and although the guild has since disbanded we had some pretty good times we can be proud of.

Addendum: I started writing this story in the Fall of 2005 (back when Zul'Gurub was relatively new content) and finished several months ago.

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The following events never took place. The Freelancers did not accept a contract from a former agent of SI:7. Gorakinos, Maggotface, and Terminos did not book passage on a vessel from Ratchet to Steamwheedle Port, and they were nowhere near Silithus during the dates in question. And tauren rogues do not exist.

With that understood, I hope you enjoy the story.

------

The day started out like any other in Orgrimmar, a mighty warrior city carved out of canyon walls and the very earth itself. Powerful orc warriors patrolled the districts, ready to fight to their very last breath and die in service to the Horde. Cunning troll priests prayed to their dark gods as they traveled down the path between light and shadow. Shamans of both races communed with the Spirits, listening to the news and needs of the natural world and growing ever more concerned about the whispers of death spreading from the north. Tauren travelers and traders stirred, thanking the Earthmother for another day of life and the many blessings she had bestowed on them. The rare Forsaken scuttled about, going about their business and remaining mostly out of sight. Goblin inventors and merchants tidied up their labs and set up their shops, preparing for another day's work. Noble wyverns flew overhead, ferrying adventurers from all over Kalimdor to the orc and troll capital. And if one tried very hard, the hawkers trying to sell their goods through an irritating combination of yelling and repetition, the dancing trolls on mailboxes offering enchantments, and even the suffocating crowds pouring into the auction house could be ignored. Maybe.

Regardless, within this city and nestled snugly in a nook that kept it out of common sight stood the Orgrimmar Legitimate Businessmen's Club, headquarters to the mercenary group known and (mostly) respected as The Freelancers. Its many members prided themselves on being able to do any job for the right price and generally having a fun time doing said job. The Club was their home away from whatever a mercenary calls home, a place to unwind, relax, and seal future contracts with old and prospective clients. Oblivious strangers who wandered in from the streets were politely shown to the door. The staff of the Orgrimmar Legitimate Businessmen's Club took their duties seriously, and if you had no business being there then you would be 'persuaded' to leave. Simple as that.

It was in this setting that the story began. The club's orc bartender, Goremug, hearing approaching footsteps, looked up from the glass he was cleaning with a rag and examined the newest 'guest'. She was undeniably a woman, and by woman mind-bogglingly gorgeous is meant. Tall but not imposing, demure but confident, long hair black as night and smooth like spider's silk, skin pale as snow, and eyes blue as the ocean, she also had a body that boldly asserted in no uncertain terms that yes, gods do exist, and they decided that she would be born so they'd have someone to sleep with. Master architect Franclorn Forgewright himself could not have designed more seductive proportions for the human body, and looking at her one got the impression that it would be easier to push the entire Horde back through the Dark Portal and into the demon-infested remnants of Draenor than for her black leather, one-piece suit to go another second without losing its battle against her extraordinarily well-formed, enticing body and bursting at the seams. A single breath would be all that was required.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your viewpoint), she was undead and didn't need to breath. Goremug, despite his professionalism, was thankful for this because it would make dealing with the lady easier since, unlike a certain orc warlord who seems to have spent far too much time in wastelands surrounded by enemies, he wasn't into necrophilia. With a silent nod in her direction as she sat down on a stool at the bar counter, he walked over to her and opened his mouth to take her order. "Choose your poison, madam."

"A cup of thistle tea with one-no, two sugars," the woman ordered nonchalantly, words confirming Goremug's silent suspicions about her as she covertly surveyed the room out of the corner of her eyes. She was obviously a rogue. Few professions carried themselves with the same grace she displayed in abundance, and those that did were more likely to order alcohol than tea.

Goremug turned and went to work behind the counter, quickly making a pot of thistle tea with the skill all first-rate bartenders in notorious establishments are famed for. When he returned to hand his customer her drink, the orc found her gazing intently at him and shivered. The woman's eyes were...disturbing. They were as deep and endless as the ocean, but in their depths a terrible storm was brewing. Then again, Goremug thought, trying to reassure himself, a lot of Forsaken had that brink of madness look to them, and a customer is a customer, regardless of race, gender, and mental stability.

The woman accepted the cup with a grateful nod of her head and took a sip, savoring the beverage's warmth as it slid down her throat and, more out of reflex than anything else, exhaling contentedly. "Not bad, especially considering what the demands of your regulars likely are. Compliments aside, though, I think you can guess why I'm here." Her eyes narrowed calculatingly. "Who does a lady speak to in order to hire the services of the Freelancers?"

The bartender hesitated for a moment, looking around the room. His vision was first drawn to the mighty Forsaken warrior Mafo Jushilit of Stratholme -- better known as Maggotface the Glutton -- slumped over a table with a mug of beer in one hand and a bottle of something even more potent in the other. Every now and then undead human would stir from his alcoholic stupor and take a swig, not spilling a single drop despite the stark absence of a lower jaw, before returning to the land of drunken dreams. The orc then focused on the white wolf sleeping under a nearby table and occasionally scratching itself with a back leg. A half-second later he shifted his gaze again and desperately searched for someone else. His efforts were in vain. With the battles occurring in Zul'Gurub, many of the Freelancers had taken up temporary residence in Booty Bay and Grom'gol, leaving the Club unusually quiet. Sighing, Goremug looked at Maggotface, then the wolf, back at Maggotface, the wolf again, and unhappily made a decision. "Excuse me for a moment, madam. The Freelancers will be right with you."

Getting out from behind the bar, Goremug walked over to the wolf, kneeled down, lowered his head to the creature's right ear, and spoke loudly but respectfully, "Master Gorakinos, there is a potential client waiting to meet with you!"

The wolf's eyes immediately opened, and the animal, still shrugging off sleep, instinctively bolted upwards, slamming its head against the bottom of the table and collapsing painfully on the ground. Now wide awake, the wolf howled and returned to its true form, that of the orc shaman Gorakinos who, thanks to his massive bulk, accidentally slammed his head against the table again. Rather embarrassed, the orc very carefully crawled out from under the table and slowly stood up, dusting himself off and giving Goremug a sour look. The bartender, none the worse for wear and having derived some small amusement from his superior's clumsiness, hid his smirk and politely indicated the Forsaken chuckling mirthfully at the bar.

Getting the gist of what Goremug was asking of him, Gorakinos did his best to compose himself and, with all the dignity he could still muster, walked over to the bar counter and sat down next to the new patron. "Welcome to the Club, and I'm pleased to hear that you're interesting in contracting with the Freelancers. I'm Gorakinos the orc shaman. What type of business do you have with us?"

"Threnody D'usque," the Forsaken identified herself as, tone serious now that actual negotiations were beginning. "Of the Undercity." She took another sip of her tea, simultaneously examining the person she was dealing with from underneath lowered eyelids, and nodded her head imperceptibly, having reached a decision. "How much do the Freelancers normally charge for a retrieval operation?"

Gorakinos, trying very hard and only partially succeeding at keeping his eyes focused on her face and not elsewhere (He REALLY needed to get out more), mulled the question over for a second and chose to err on the side of caution. "That would depend on the difficulty of the job. What...exactly do you have in mind?"

"During my...life, I made a comfortable living in Stormwind looking after the family business. However, misfortune struck while I visited Lordaeron on a related matter. I was killed when the Scourge overran the kingdom, but they denied me peace and resurrected me as a mindless, undead slave through their vile plague," the Forsaken woman recounted angrily, expression darkening as she remembered her past. "I remained as such until the Dark Lady freed me, and I pledged myself to the Forsaken's cause. I now have a new life in the Undercity but...I don't want to let go of my old life completely."

An almost frantic note entered Threnody's voice as she continued. "Devastated by my death, my younger brother resolved to start over in the new lands of Kalimdor and booked passage to Steamwheedle Port on a vessel from Booty Bay. In addition to his own luggage, he carried a chest containing a personal possession of mine. Lamentably, the ship, the Morning Song, ran into a naga war party near Kalimdor and sank before it could reach Steamwheedle. Most of the crew and passengers -- including my brother -- perished, and the vessel now lies on the bottom of the ocean along the coast of Tanaris. I want that container and the part of my past it carries back, but my responsibilities deny me the time to travel to Tanaris myself and I can't put the Undercity's resources to such a...trivial use. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to travel to Tanaris, retrieve the chest, and return to Orgrimmar. You'll be able to recognize it by the Stormwind crest affixed to it, and it should be in the cargo hold with the rest of the luggage. In exchange, I'm willing to pay whatever price you ask, so long as it's within my means."

Slightly disturbed that the Forsaken appeared to care more about her box than her brother's death, Gorakinos nonetheless nodded his head. Even if he was uneasy about the value Threnody attached to human life, that was no reason to turn down what otherwise looked like a fairly simple contract. "Agreed, but how will the Freelancers contact you after we've completed the assignment?"

With a haughty laugh, Threnody finished the last of her tea, stood up, and grinned confidently. "I'll know when you've returned. Trust me on that." She turned to leave.

"Wait!" Gorakinos called after her, spinning on the barstool to face her shrinking back. "What about writing and signing a contract-"

"I always keep my promises," the undead beauty replied without slowing down, a hint of bitterness and resentment in her tone. "If you do what I've told you, you'll be paid. Don't doubt that."

Gorakinos opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could she walked through the doors to the Club and disappeared. Instead, the orc shaman lowered his head, sighed, and then glared at Goremug for a moment. "All right, Goremug. Why did you disturb my sleep when there are more senior Freelancers present?"

In answer, the bartender, who'd quietly slipped back behind the bar during the negotiations, pointed at the inebriated Maggotface. Gorakinos reluctantly conceded his point. "Okay, I suppose I can't fault you for waking me up...although I can be angry about it for a couple days. Good thing for you I'll be heading out to Tanaris soon. I don't suppose there are any other Freelancers nearby? Although I don't expect too much trouble, it would be nice to have some company, and it's always better to err on the side of caution."

"Except when it isn't," Goremug muttered, scratching the bottom of his chin as he searched his memory. "I think Terminos is somewhere in the Cleft of Shadow if you want to bring him along. Other than that, not particularly, unless you consider Zul'Gurub or Gnomeregan close." Seeing Gorakinos' surprised look at the mention of the latter, the orc shook his head. "Believe me, you don't want to know."

The shaman absorbed this knowledge and contemplated it for a moment. "Hm...much as I distrust warlocks, Terminos seems relatively trustworthy and unlikely to stab me in the back, eviscerate me on a sacrificial alter, sell my soul to a succubus, and the other things warlocks do to earn favor with demons or when they're really, really bored. He'll do. And if worse comes to worse, I can always drag Mafo along. He has to sober up eventually."

Goremug, muffling a chuckle as Gorakinos left, tactfully refrained from mentioning that Maggotface's last contract had been with Brewmaster Drohn who'd paid him in cold, hard liquor.

------

Terminos gazed evenly at the demonic visage standing defiantly before him, confidence unshakable as he observed his opponent through cold, calculating, unblinking eyes. The foolish creature would soon rue the day it dared challenge him. He was Terminos, master warlock. He had trained long and studied even harder. There was no foe he could not face, no spell he could not learn, and no force beyond his ability to bind to his own will. No, he had tread down the path of darkness and power for too long to let this puny, insignificant wretch stop him now.

With unwavering self-assurance and the slightest of grins, the warlock moved his lips and, softly, delicately, but with undeniable strength, intoned a set of ancient syllables that formed words that echoed across the dimensions, words of such power as to show who was truly master and who was slave in this contest between the damned.

Much to Terminos' horror, however, the demon, far from cowering before his might, smiled sinisterly, and his smirk grew until it filled the warlock's vision. The Forsaken, seeing the servant of the Burning Legion's mouth move to form words of his own, felt the first stirrings of fear as all his elaborate plans unraveled and the simple, undeniable truth that he had just made a fatal mistake dawned upon him.

"Go Murloc," the imp Noktog crowed triumphantly, chortling at his master's disgruntled expression as he angrily reached across the table and added another card to his already laughably large hand. -Master warlock he might be,- the demon thought, -but when it comes to cards a dragon whelpling could play a better game.-

"Lousy pest," the Forsaken muttered under his breath, sulking and eying Noktog's significantly smaller hand of cards enviously. If the imp wasn't so clearly winning, the sight of the demon holding a set of cards half his size might actually be funny. Of course, since his demon familiar was winning, Terminos found no humor in the situation at all and glared balefully at all the passersby whose eyes were caught by the unusual scene, silently threatening them with the powers of shadow and flame should they DARE say anything or even chortle.

"Hail Terminos! Ah, losing again I take it?" called a familiar, annoyingly cheerful voice, and the warlock reflected that there were some minds so dense that even a shadow bolt to the head couldn't penetrate them. Foolish, insufferable, aggravating-

"What do you want, Gorakinos?" the Forsaken grumbled, watching the approaching orc shaman suspiciously. Although not a Freelancer himself, the warlock willingly associated with and aided the mercenary band, knowing the use of allies in these troubled times. Still, it was rare indeed for a shaman of all people to seek him out, and he wondered what would compel one normally diametrically opposed to his calling to pay him a visit. Noktog, deciding it was better not to call attention to himself in front of the spirit speaker, set down his cards and phase-shifted. He could always beat his master at cards later, anyway.

Stopping at the table's edge, Gorakinos looked down at the undead human and answered his question. "As it turns out, the Freelancers have been hired to retrieve a chest from a sunken ship off the coast of Tanaris. I'd handle the job myself, but the woman who sought us out seemed rather...suspicious, and I'd rather be safe than sorry. Unfortunately, you're the closest thing to help in the area unless you count a somewhat...indisposed Maggotface. So, will you seek gold and riches with me or remain here and lose more of your dignity to your impish friend?" 

Terminos suppressed a groan at the orc's horrible pun but, gazing once again at his dismal hand of cards, decided the shaman had a point. "Fine," he rasped, sounding rather displeased, "I'll accompany you on your journey. However, Mafo, present state notwithstanding, will also come with us. Just as you'd rather be safe than sorry, I'd prefer to have a skilled warrior with us, just in case." -Just in case you decide to stab me in the back, purge me into nonexistence, cremate my remains, and toss my ashes into the ocean,- the warlock thought distrustfully. One did hear things about the actions of very zealous or very, very bored shamans.

Gorakinos frowned pensively but, after a moment's consideration, shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure, why not? Maggotface can probably use the fresh air, and even drunk he is a skilled warrior. Besides," the orc commented, unaware of the large mistake he was about to make, "what's the worst that can happen?"

An inconceivable distance away, an indescribable entity of incomprehensible power stirred, turned its attention to Azeroth, marveled at the natives' total lack of understanding of the principles of causality, and returned to its slumber.

------

"Are...we -hic- theeeeere yet?"

"No!"

"Neuga, ziena, zieber, zom..."

Mounted on a mighty skeletal warhorse, a trusty wolf, and a demonic felsteed, respectively, the three figures and one tiny demon rode through Razorwind Canyon, unaware that they were being followed.

"Ahh...are we –hiccup- there ye-e-e-et?"

"For the thousandth time, no! I'll tell you when we're there, okay? So please stop asking the question!"

"Now the chosen time has come..."

From the heights of Thunder Ridge, a figure looked down at the trio of travelers from his tallstrider mount and scrutinized them. Although clothed in inconspicuous traveler's garb that seemed to blend in with the surroundings, the watcher's sheer size and bulk should've been enough to put an end to all attempts at stealth faster than a tank of ale can disappear in Ironforge. The tracker was perfectly aware of this and used it to his advantage, maintaining a careful posture that made the idea that someone of his size and bulk could be stealthy so laughable that, even if somebody had looked in his direction, the subconscious would immediately reject the idea that he was there successfully being stealthy and completely ignore him.

"O-o-o-one bottle of...-hic- grog on the wall, one bottttttttle of gro-o-o-og! Ta-a-ake -hic- one down, pass it around, o-o-"

"That's not any better!"

"Exchange this world for-!"

"Don't summon the giant pink porcupine, master!"

Unnoticed and unseen, the watcher sighed and urged his tallstrider mount on to greater speed. By the sound of it, this was going to be a long assignment.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Freelancers -- A True Story That Never Happened

Author: Rowan Seven (Gorakinos)

Rating: PG-13

Teaser: The Freelancers learn that there are some contracts they'd be better off refusing.

Disclaimer: The following story is set in the world of Blizzard's Warcraft series. All characters, concepts, and environments are copyrights of their respective owners. I am not making any money off this piece of fiction. Information is used freely from the Warcraft games, books, and RPG series, and spoilers may be present in the following tale.

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Dear Diary,

We reached the Southfury River today in record time, prodded on by the sun, moons, and Maggotface's insufferable singing. Too bad we don't have a priest with us to silence him. We would've reached Far Watch Outpost this morning, but Noktog was swallowed by a crocolisk and we spent most of the afternoon riding up and down the river trying to convince the beasts to open their mouths without biting our heads off. After a couple hours of futility, we compromised and used Terminos' Eye of Kilrogg to search for that blasted imp. I've never seen a magical, disembodied eye give a person such an ugly look before. Despite these...irritations, the journey has gone well so far, and I have hopes that the Crossroads will soon be in our sights. I also hope that Maggotface will sober up soon and STOP SINGING! Argh.

------

Dear Diary,

We're at the Crossroads now. Maggotface is still drunk, and he still hasn't stopped singing. If I didn't know how temperamental his skeletal warhorse is, I'd think he was hiding booze inside the undead mount's ribcage. Terminos continues to be grouchy and lose every game he plays to pass the time against Noktog. We ran into Baneslayer earlier and invited him to join our party, but he declined so he could rejoin the frontlines in Warsong Gulch. That druid's going to be true terror on the battlefield when he completes his training. Boorand Plainswind has agreed to put our lodging and stabling expenses on my tab. Even if I was the type of orc to lie, I wouldn't try to cheat this innkeeper. The skill with which he can wield that broom of his is frightening. Tomorrow, weather permitting, we'll continue our journey to Ratchet, and I think we'll manage fine. My weather sense says another hot, dry day is expected, with a good chance for sandstorms. The Kalimdor Farmer's Almanac and Maggotface's trusty wooden leg both concur, although I wouldn't put too much trust in Mafo's trusty wooden leg since it used to be the fourth sturdy leg of a table until an hour ago. Please don't ask.

------

Dear Diary,

We've finally arrived in Ratchet, and I spent the better part of the day arguing with Wharfmaster Dizzwig over the price of our voyage to Steamwheedle. The goblin insisted we pay as much for the transportation of our mounts and Noktog as if they were people! Argh, so much for my "friendly" reputation with the Steamwheedle Cartel. Terminos, after standing around and chuckling at my difficulties for a couple minutes, went off and spent the rest of the afternoon conversing with Strahad Farsan. About what, I don't know and probably am better off not knowing. Darn warlocks and their suspicious characters. You can't take your eyes off them for more than five minutes without them disappearing on you to commune with the forces of darkness. Maggotface immediately went over to speak to Brewmaster Drohn, and after the two exchanged greetings they jovially walked into Ratchet's bar and I've deliberately not checked up on them. Maggotface was even beginning to show signs of sobering up until today. After concluding my negotiations with Dizzywig and agreeing to pay a not as bad but still frustratingly exorbitant price, I meandered around for awhile and ran into a night elf warrior. She glowered at me for a little bit so I, already in a bad mood, glowered right back. Had there not been Ratchet Bruisers nearby, matters might've come to blows, although how she expected her armor to protect her from my dagger I have no idea. I've seen dryads wear more than she was.

------

Dear Diary,

We're at sea now, and the ship has an open bar. Why me?

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Dear Diary,

Many moons ago, when I was a young member of the guild known as Blood of the Fold, I learned five life rules that have served me well. There are as follows:

Rule #1 (a.k.a. Zorthok's Law): Don't die.

Rule #2: If you see something shiny and neat looking on the ground, picking it up might not be a good idea due to the possibility of breaking Zorthok's Law with subsequent actions.

Rule #3: Noktwar is a ladies' man.

Rule #4: Don't get eaten.

Rule #5: Darkenrahl is a bulldog of a frost mage who can pull aggro from places you didn't think even had aggro. In other words, he out-aggroes everything...except possibly a warlock below twenty seasons in the Plaguelands, but that's debatable!

For my own purposes, I now add a sixth rule to that list.

Rule #6: Finding pristine tigress fangs in Stranglethorn Vale is easier than putting up with Maggotface's drunken singing!

That is all.

------

Dear Diary,

Land ahoy! We're finally near Tanaris, and this barren desert has never looked so good. A band of pirates boarded us earlier today, but Maggotface and the goblin crew were able to chase them off. Personally, I suspect that the pirates were so startled to see a Forsaken in Wildheart that they didn't know how to react. An undead warrior with a giant purple bird on his head? That simply doesn't make sense. Terminos has been using Noktog as bait for fishing during this trip over the imp's protests of cruel and inhumane treatment. Terminos retorts by pointing out that Noktog isn't human to begin with, which sets off an entire round of philosophical debate until the warlock gets fed up and casts his familiar overboard again. By this method, he has caught a surprising number of sharks. Terminos has been kind enough to share the fish scales with me for spell reagents since we're going to be spending a lot of time underwater soon, and the goblin cooks have been utilizing the rest for fresh food. The price we're paying for this voyage hasn't been reduced because of our "charitable donations", though. Anyway, tomorrow we should dock at Steamwheedle, and, if all goes well, it won't take us more than a day or two to retrieve the lockbox and be on our way back to Orgrimmar. I wish to join my comrades in Zul'Gurub soon, and I can't very well do that on the other side of the world.

------

It was a sunken ship not unlike any other. Lying on the ocean floor and damaged beyond repair by its descent, the cracked and fractured wooden frame was already accumulating barnacles and becoming a habitat for scores of schools of fish and other sea creatures. Such was the way of the sea. Regardless of past and origin, the ocean swallowed and made one its own. This was as inevitable as the relentless rise and fall of the tides.

-Swish-

From within the battered shell of the Morning Song, a mighty leviathan covered in green and blue scales stirred. Serpentine, amphibious eyes peered into the darkness of the wrecked vessel and narrowed in displeasure, and the beast tightened its hold on a massive trident. Still no word from his superiors.

-I have waited patiently, biding my time and making preparations for the attack on the surface world,- Tidus Wavecrest, Royal Guard to the Empress Azshara, She who is Light of Lights, thought to himself. -I have established this base in the deeps and scouted this arid desert to the best of my ability. I have observed the stirring of the Bronze Dragonflight from the Caverns of Time. I have seen the warnings of the Titans' return at Uldum. I have even taken up leatherworking and crafted an epic 5-piece set of armor from the shells of the snapjaws in the area and the carapaces of the Silithid, and STILL the command to attack has not been sent! By the Maelstrom, WHAT IS TAKING THEM SO BLASTED LONG?! If those naga seawitches are gossiping about Lady Vashj and Prince Kael'thas again, I'll tie their tails together, proprieties aside!-

Not all creatures of the depths, however, possessed the same patience as their native element.

------

As the three intrepid mercenaries and one imp swam under the ocean, Terminos found that he was strangely enjoying himself. True, he had water in places he'd rather not think about and his decayed flesh was going to be soggy for the rest of the day, but it was in situations like this that he could exult in the superiority of undeath. While that fool Gorakinos wasted his weak powers to provide him with breath and oxygen, Terminos -- as one of the Forsaken -- was not encumbered by such pitiable limitations of the living. He was undead, and breathing was merely a matter of choice for him. He, simply by being what he was, was immune to the deadly ocean's power, and every moment surrounded by water was a clear reminder of this.

As the three drew closer to the sunken ship, though, the warlock's eyes narrowed and with a clarity of sight that no normal land dweller could possess spied the lithe, serpentine form of a female naga patrolling the wrecked deck. Even if the ocean could not destroy him, Terminos reluctantly admonished himself, it held other terrors that could. He would have to be careful.

Maggotface, too, had noticed the deadly amphibian that lay ahead and signaled his two partners to stop. Although still not clear-headed, being underwater mitigated the severest symptoms of his inebriation, and he was first and foremost a professional warrior. His state of mind did not have an effect on his combat skills, although the same could not always be said about his choice of targets, as an unfortunate Undercity Guardian with more stitches than normal would angrily attest to.

Through a combination of hand signals and facial expressions, the undead fighter indicated that they should approach stealthily and try to sneak in. There were many holes in the ship's frame through which the three of them could pass, and it wouldn't be a good idea to start a fight until they knew how many naga occupied the sunken vessel. Gorakinos nodded his head in agreement, feeling slightly ill at ease. Although he was a shaman whose calling made him a partner with nature, he knew he was out of his element down here, and the ocean put him at another disadvantage as well. So long as he was in the water, he needed to refrain from channeling the sky's fury through lightning unless he wanted electrocute both himself and his companions.

With Noktog following close behind and Maggotface in the lead, the trio dropped deeper into the ocean's depths until they stood on solid ground again and carefully approached the shipwreck. Cautiously probing the frame, they found a gap in the boards and swam through it, entering the ship unseen but, unknown to them, not unnoticed.

From within his quarters, Tidus Wavecrest hissed and looked up from the legendary three piece armor set he was designing from pristine black pearls, enchanted kraken hide, chromatic coral, elementium ore, and especially mysterious mystery meat imbued with pristine salt. Intruders, and apparently foolish ones too if they thought he couldn't detect the scent of rotting flesh and coagulated blood the water was carrying. He would have to deal with them and show them the consequences of confronting the Naga Empire. -Still,- he thought curiously, sinister mind analyzing the situation with a sharpness few could match, -what are they after? If it was a fight, battle would've already begun, and any skilled scout wouldn't have given their presence away so quickly. They must seek something on this ship, but what?-

Frowning, the Royal Guard decided his interests might be better served if he waited to engage the surface dwellers until he learned more. He'd give his naga subordinates orders to stay out of the intruders' path while he kept tabs on them. And, once he learned what they were here for...

Tidus Wavecrest reached for his trident in anticipation. It had been far too long for his liking since he'd last had a reason to use it.

------

The door to the ship's cargo hold was jammed shut. Fortunately for the mercenaries, it was also as brittle as glass after being underwater for so long, and one hard swing of Maggotface's sword was enough to cause it to collapse. The three entered, and Gorakinos held up his dagger glowing with the power of wind to illuminate the room. They were in for a nasty surprise.

-There's nothing in here!-

The shared thought echoed in their heads as they, nearly desperately, craned their heads to confirm their initial observations. A few boards and emptied bags floated throughout the chamber, and there was a suitcase that looked like it had been torn open lying in a corner. However, other than the telltale signs of pillaging, the goblin cargo hold was largely empty. Moreover and most importantly to the mercenaries, there was no chest.

Terminos turned around and glared at the disappointed orc, scowling and contemplating punishing the beast for wasting his precious time. He had demons to commune with, souls to sell, and card games against Noktog to win (Noktog would argue the opposite, of course). All were more important than a fruitless search for a missing parcel. However, before he could make these spiteful thoughts a reality, they were visited by a second, nastier surprise.

A large leviathan burst through the boards below them and hissed at the startled Freelancers. The 12-foot tall amphibian was clad in a black breastplate with matching epaulettes and bracers. A gem-encrusted belt encircled his waist, and a white circlet that shimmered in the dim light crowned his head. Held firmly in his two hands was a trident even taller than he was and whose edges looked sharp enough to puncture dragonhide with ease.

Tidus Wavecrest greeted the surprised intruders with a crooked smile and parted the water in front of him with a powerful, downward swing of his trident. The force generated by his actions created a punishing current that assaulted the mercenaries and sent them flying roughly backwards into the wall. Gorakinos, having the hardest head of the three, recovered first and, asking the spirits for aid, launched a ball of elemental flame at the gargantuan naga. Tidus immediately countered by extending his left fist and summoning a spear of ice that flew through the fireball and straight at the unprepared orc. His mail armor was no match for the piercing edge of ice, and Gorakinos released a muted cry of pain as he was impaled against the wooden boards.

For his part, Tidus hissed as the flames attempted to consume him, and a shadowbolt from Terminos sent him recoiling. Maggotface followed through by charging as best he could at the scaled beast, but the water slowed down his movements and Tidus, moving faster than any creature his size had a right to, repositioned himself and blocked the Forsaken's strike with his bracers, which proved impervious to Mafo's assault (It was a Tier 4 5-piece set, after all). Tidus pushed Maggotface backwards and attempted to spear him with his trident, which the undead warrior easily dodged, but he simultaneously snaked his tail around and used it to grab his opponent by the ankle. Almost disdainfully, he flung the warrior hard in the same direction as the shaman and turned his attention to the last threat he faced.

Terminos, undaunted despite the quick defeat of his allies, scowled. He was not going to die today, particularly not at the bottom of the ocean and at the hands of this wretched beast. With a gesture, he banished Noktog back to where the vexing imp came from and fingered his necklace. Muttering dark words as arcane energies embraced him, he opened his mind to the Twisting Nether and issued a call that his next minion could not disobey.

Tidus Wavecrest, recognizing the warlock's actions as summoning spell, narrowed his eyes dangerously. So be it. He'd show this fool that there was no power that could match the might of his empress by fighting fire with fire...or, more accurately, fire with water. He, too, concentrated and rallied the magic that was his birthright to his side, honing it to break down the barriers between dimensions as he prepared his spell.

As one, the two spoke the final words of their incantations. A wraithlike form of blue and black energies coalesced with a demonic grumble in front of the warlock, and Thompho, Terminos' loyal voidwalker, appeared. The water near Tidus swirled and hummed with life as it resolved itself into the vaguely humanoid shape of a coral elemental, and the royal guard smirked in pleasure at the materialization of his minion. The two enemies pointed at the other and gave their servants their murderous, unmistakable orders.

The voidwalker and coral elemental lunged at one another but, as they drew closer, something strange happened. They began to slow and finally stopped completely within a few inches of each other. The coral elemental went from blue to a distinct hue of pink, and was it just Terminos' imagination or did Thompho look...bashful? The two exchanged words in their respective tongues of Kalimag and Eredun, and, despite the language barrier, there was no mistaking the meaning of what they were saying as metaphorical hearts appeared where one would expect to see eyes. Love is beautiful and can happen anytime and anywhere.

Unaware that they were about to set one of the most epic tales of starcrossed lovers that the planes had ever witnessed into motion, Terminos and Tidus banished their minions in a moment of shared disgust. The royal guard, not used to this level of silliness, shook the cobwebs of confusion from his mind and glared at the warlock, as if blaming him for the recent episode. Regardless, the naga was slow to act, a mistake that would come back to haunt him as the water around him dropped in temperature and turned to ice.

Amphibious eyes widening in shock and anger, Tidus turned and twisted, using his tremendous strength to break the ice before it could trap him and frantically searching for the source of his predicament. His orbs alighted on the figure of Gorakinos, bleeding heavily from where he'd pulled the spear of ice out of his chest but still standing and concentrating intently, communing with the elements and receiving their aid. The naga hissed in serpentine displeasure, but before he could do anything else a board was slammed over his head. Blinking, Tidus turned and looked behind him just in time to see Maggotface, who'd used the earlier distraction to sneak around him, slam a shield over his head, and this was quickly followed by the blunt side of the warrior's blade. Bleary-eyed, the naga was just able to discern the shape of a rapidly approaching fist heading towards his face before a plated gauntlet made impact and he fell unconscious.

Maggotface tried to laugh in triumph, but he choked on the water and had to settle for a hacking cough of victory instead. He raised his sword and prepared to finish the mighty royal guard once and for all, but Terminos shook his head in the negative. Pointing at the naga, the empty room around them, and then Gorakinos who was in the middle of casting a restoration spell to heal his wounds, he tilted his head inquisitively, asking Maggotface if he understood.

The Forsaken warrior looked at the warlock long and hard, deep in thought, before nodding his head in the affirmative. Terminos sighed in relief, but his comfort was short-lived as Maggotface swam over to Gorakinos and offered the orc his sword to deliver the lethal blow. The warlock stared for a full minute but then, fists shaking in exasperation, opened his mouth and yelled. Even underwater, it was clear what he was saying.

"YOU IDIOTS!!!"

------

Also within the broken frame of the ship, a naga sorceress blinked in disbelief. There was no way she had just seen a tauren with a scuba diving mask and snorkel swim by. It was simply impossible.

Those were her last thoughts before a hand covered her mouth and a dagger the size of a sword was plunged into her heart, killing her. She didn't even have time to scream.

The tauren with a scuba diving mask over his face and a snorkel in his mouth casually pushed the dead naga off his blade, taking special care not to spill blood, and sheathed the knife. He had many more targets to eliminate if he wanted to guarantee that his quarry reached land again in one piece without being ambushed, and his job would be much easier if the scent of death wasn't carried in the water.

------

Later and back on the surface, it would be an understatement to say that Tidus Wavecrest was accommodating the Freelancers' search for the chest.

"I'LL NEVER TALK, YOU ACCURSED LAND DWELLERS! I LIVE ONLY FOR EMPRESS AZSHARA, SHE WHO IS LIGHT OF LIGHTS! I DO NOT FEAR DEATH AND WILL TAKE GREAT SATISFACTION FROM BEYOND KNOWING THAT WHEN WE NAGA RETAKE THE SURFACE WORLD YOUR INSIGNIFICANT RACES WILL BE AMONG THE FIRST TO GO!"

Gorakinos and Terminos, undismayed by the naga's recalcitrance, exchanged a cunning, devious look, their thoughts the same for once. As one, they turned to look at Maggotface who was celebrating their victory with a bottle he'd managed to hide from his traveling companions and spoke the words that would unleash an unfathomable horror upon the royal guard.

"Hey Mafo, don't you think the occasion calls for a song?"

"Yeah, I think a song would be nice right about now."

"Good -hiccup- call! O-one hu-u-ndred thou-ousand a-a-and e-eleven bottles of...-hic- grog on the wall, one hu-u-ndred thou-ousand a-a-and e-eleven bottttttles of gro-o-o-og! Ta-a-ake -hic- one down, pass it around, o-o-"

2 hours later...

"ENOUGH! ENOUGH! I SUBMIT! I'LL TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SHIP'S CARGO HOLD! JUST PLEASE CEASE THIS INSUFFERABLE SINGING!!!"


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Freelancers -- A True Story That Never Happened

Author: Rowan Seven (Gorakinos)

Rating: PG-13

Teaser: The Freelancers learn that there are some contracts they'd be better off refusing.

Disclaimer: The following story is set in the world of Blizzard's Warcraft series. All characters, concepts, and environments are copyrights of their respective owners. I am not making any money off this piece of fiction. Information is used freely from the Warcraft games, books, and RPG series, and spoilers may be present in the following tale.

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Dear Diary,

Although it took some 'persuasion' on Maggotface's part, the naga finally told us what he knew. Apparently an expedition of dwarfs got to the sunken ship before the naga did and carted off most of its contents. Asking around in Gadgetzan yielded more information that was, thankfully, free after Maggotface agreed to entertain the crowds for a bit in a cage match. His opponent was the most vicious, terrifying, beastly mechanical squirrel I have ever seen. It shot lasers from its cute beady eyes! Fortunately, its AI was thrown for a loop when the mechanical critter went for Maggotface's nonexistent jaw, and the undead warrior smashed it -- rather excessively, I might add -- into dozens of bits and pieces. Anyway, the expedition was headed by none other than Brann Bronzebeard, famous dwarf archaeologist of the Explorer's League. He was traveling to Silithus to do research on the sealed city of Ahn'Qiraj, so the three of us will be making the journey to that wasteland starting tomorrow after we've restocked on supplies. I'm keeping an eye on Mafo to make sure he doesn't buy any booze, but I have the sinking suspicion that my efforts will be in vain.

------

Dear Diary,

...I think I've spent too much time in the sun recently. I imagined a talking turtle who rhapsodized about love. The smell isn't helping matters much either. As much as I enjoy Maggotface and Terminos' company, heat and rotting corpses don't go very well together. Noktog is the only one who seems happy about the temperature and remains irritatingly cheerful, commenting on how much it feels like home right now. Blasted demon. Blasted sun. Blasted hallucinogenic cactus. Blasted-...wait, hallucinogenic cactus? Uh-oh...

------

Dear Diary,

We finally reached Un'goro Crater this morning, and we didn't get more than a few miles before a devilsaur snuck up behind us and swallowed Maggotface and his steed in one bite. How anything that large can be so stealthy eludes me. Fortunately, Maggotface is long past his expiration date, and the devilsaur almost immediately spat him and his warhorse back out. The sound of glass breaking revealed that yes, Mafo has been hiding a stash of alcohol behind his skeletal warhorse's ribcage. He wept over the shattered remains of glass and has been downcast the rest of the day. He has not, however, stopped his singing. Even Terminos, 'Will of the Forsaken' notwithstanding, looks a bit irritated. I'm really looking forward to the end of this contract. I signed up for gold and maybe a little bit of glory, not being outnegotiated by goblins at every turn, attacked by naga, saving various party members from digestion, and putting up with off-key drinking songs.

------

Dear Diary,

After a long journey across the vast wilds of Un'goro Crater and a missed chance to enjoy the region's legendary hotsprings (Maggotface and Terminos vetoed my suggestion, darn them), the occupants of Valor's Rest greeted us as we entered Silithus. The night elves were less than pleased to deal with Forsaken, but they didn't begrudge our presence and even gave us lodging and directions to Cenarion Hold. Looking around this wasteland, I can only hope that we achieve our purpose quickly. There is something...ominously amiss about these lands, and I sense a shadow over this desert more twisted and terrible than the last Forsaken fashion show.

------

The arrival of the three mercenaries into the Cenarion Circle's largest fortified outpost in the hostile wastes of Silithus did not go unnoticed or unremarked upon. As Gorakinos lead his two traveling companions up the rounded, sloped path to Cenarion Hold, he felt what seemed to be the eyes of every occupant on them and, with his keen orcish senses, noted the dark mutterings and invectives quietly hurled at them.

"A pity," Gorakinos spoke, an air of depression settling upon him. "I had heard that the Cenarion Circle possessed vision and a willingness to overlook the mistakes of the past and focus on the future of this world. I had heard that theirs was a group willing to work with any noble-hearted person and judge according to character, not race. I had heard and come to expect much, but my hopes appear to have been in vain. The murder of Cenarius is still held against us, it seems, and the many suffer for the crimes of the few, no matter the legendary Hellscream's great act of redemption. If the druids of the Cenarion Circle, the most open-minded and clear-sighted of the night elven race, cannot let go of past hatreds, what hope is there for the rest? I fear that the conflict between our peoples has no end near in sight if I am not misreading the signs before me."

Terminos, hearing the orc's monologue, sighed from sheer exhaustion at the stupidity of his partners and, much as he would like to see the greenskin continue in his ignorance, decided that they'd all be better off if he corrected this false presumption. "Gorakinos...you do know that Maggotface goes around slaughtering druids in his free time and that he regularly makes the Cenarion Circle's list of people they most want a treant to step on, right?"

The orc halted his mount in midstride, blinked, and turned around to look behind him, gazing at the amazingly nearly sober undead warrior who was jeering at the outpost's guards and making menacing motions with his sword. Come to think of it, most of the eyes were focused on the Wildheart cowled Forsaken, and almost all the insults he could make out included references to "undead", "filth", "vermin", and "spawn of a necromancer with only an associate's degree in the dark arts!". "...No, Terminos, I did not know that," he muttered tersely. "Thank you for the explaining the situation to me. Why...why don't you go on ahead and start asking around for Bronzebeard while I have a 'chat' with Mafo?"

The warlock, grinning snidely, was for once all too happy to oblige.

------

"Sstupid orc," Maggotface grumbled, walking alongside his mount as he begrudgingly descended down the Cenarion Hold's slope. Gorakinos had told him in no uncertain terms that it might be for the best if he stayed clear of the druids, and while he technically outranked the shaman he didn't want those petty night elves to have the satisfaction of seeing Freelancers fight amongst themselves. Pathetic purple-skins, just because they used to be immortal and have a legendary empire they thought they were better than everyone else. Those arrogant, self-righteous druids were the worst of the lot too, so sure of themselves and their own sincerity and good-intentions that it made the Forsaken warrior sick. Given the circumstances, really, who could blame him for rending every night elf druid he saw in twain? Night elves tasted pretty good too, particularly when thrown into a stew brewed by one of those nearly as worthless trolls. Hm...stew...

Thoughts having moved from irritation to merciless slaughter to food and drink, Maggotface felt his stomach rumble, a reflexive action born from his many years of humanity that he'd not yet completely cast off. He reached for the pack on his mount only to curse a moment later, belatedly remembering that for reasons completely BEYOND HIS UNDERSTANDING neither Gorakinos nor Terminos had trusted him with the group's travel rations.

"Stupid partnersssz," the undead fighter slurred angrily, clenching his right fist in wrath. What right did they have to call him untrustworthy? Terminos was a warlock, for Sylvanas' sake! Always going around muttering dark incantations, communing with demons (though, much to Maggotface's chagrin, rarely his succubus who would make a great addition to their party in his opinion), and...um, other evil stuff! The Forsaken would probably lethally poison the food if he had the chance. And as for Gorakinos...he was the only one among them who actually needed to eat! Like you could really entrust food to someone like that! Hmph, well, next time he saw them he'd-

"You seem a little parched. Anything I can help with, traveler?"

Startled at the deep, grizzly voice, Maggotface looked up and straight into the furry and seemingly jovial face of a pandaren wearing a black robe and bamboo hat standing a few yards in front of him. The giant ursine waved affably. "The name's Sinjo Honeybrew, traveler. Pleased to make your acquaintance, honorable...?"

"Mafo Jushilit," the Forsaken answered with a scowl, the large, fuzzy bear's cuteness and cheerful nature vexing him. This was soon forgotten, however, as Maggotface's attention was quickly drawn to the wooden keg carried on the pandaren's back and the unmistakable odor of strong, rich alcohol. Noticing the direction of Mafo's eyesight, the pandaren grinned.

"Ah, a fellow connoisseur of fine ale, I see! Surely this meeting was fated by the ancestors, honorable Mafo Jushilit. Come, let us share a drink and learn each other's stories. A toast to our new friendship, I say!" Sinjo exclaimed excitedly, setting down his keg and sitting down, simultaneously drawing two wooden mugs from the recesses of his pockets. He offered one to Maggotface who immediately accepted.

"You knowsh, Sinjo..." Maggotface commented as the pandaren filled the Forsaken's mug with ale, "I think this could be the start of a be-a-a-utiful friendship."

------

"You mean to tell me...that Brann Bronzebeard is missing?" Gorakinos growled, scowling unhappily at the dwarf below him and wondering what would go wrong next. The druids had, after some prodding, told Terminos that the target of their search had set up a camp in southern Silithus a while back, and the two of them had grabbed the once again inebriated Maggotface and ridden to the encampment as quickly as they could, hoping that their mission might finally be near its end. They were, of course, wrong, and this displeased the shaman and warlock to no end. Maggotface was beyond caring at the moment, and Noktog was busy running away from Glibb the monkey who'd decided that the imp was a neat toy.

"Yep," Rutgar Glyphshaper replied gruffly, unfazed by the unhappy orc looming above him. He'd seen scarier things during his many years in the Explorer's Guild, many of them only a few days ride away since coming to Silithus, and if this green savage thought he could be intimidated so easily...well, he had another thing coming to him. "That dwarf ain't got any sense in his head. He's the type o' person that, if he saw a green glowing portal oo't in the middle of nowhere, he'd walk through it just to see where it leads. What's it to you, though? If Brann owes you money and said he'd pay you back using the Explorer's Guild's bank account at Ironforge, forget o'bout it. Much as the Guild is proud o' its most famous member, they have no obligation to honor his debts beyond traveling expenses. Trust me, you did not w'ont to be anywhere near Ironforge the last time Brann tried to convince High Explorer Magellas to cover his bar tabs."

Gorakinos, patience terribly frayed by his ordeals of the past couple days, took a deep breath and tried very hard to resist the urge to bash his head against a rock. Fortunately, before he could say or do something he might regret, Terminos decided to stop hovering ominously in the background and carry on their line of inquiry.

"Not at all," the warlock said smoothly albeit a bit distastefully, displeased at having to deal with a dwarf. While he considered nearly all the living to be fools and idiots, dwarves with their love of ale ranked particularly low in his mind. At least they weren't nearly as annoying as their gnomish cousins, though. "Truth be told, we're looking to salvage a package for our client. Her brother was a passenger on the unfortunate Morning Song, and we heard that Bronzebeard managed to salvage some of the ship's contents. You wouldn't happen to know if a chest with a Stormwind crest was among the recovered goods, would you?"

"Get your dirty hands off me, you filthy ape!" Noktog shouted as Glibb finally caught the wily imp and spun the demon around, simian eyes alight with mischief and delight. Everyone ignored the two.

Rutgar scratched his beard and thought for a minute. While he didn't trust these mercenaries, anybody crazy enough to travel to this wasteland in search of someone's missing luggage earned a few points in his book, and telling the truth probably wouldn't make things any worse than they already were. "Hm...yeah, now that yo' mention it, I vaguely remember something like 'hat. Brann sent most of the retrieved items to Theramore to be sorted th'ough, but he held onto the chest because the locking mechanism resisted his best o'fforts to pick it. He wanted to give it another couple tries when he had the spare time."

Terminos felt the first stirrings of hope return to him. "So the chest is here, then?"

"Nope," the dwarf answered curtly, sending the Forsaken plunging down into the depths of despair again. "Those crazy Twilight Cultists raided our camp a while ago for supplies and made off with 'hit. Assuming they haven't destroyed it, it's probably lying in one of their bases somewhere. You're welcome to search for it and make the world a better place by bashing in some cultist heads, but it's probably more trouble than it's worth, in my not so humble opinion. You'd have better luck finding o' good deal in Ratchet."

"Ah, bu-but Freelancers never quitsh!" Maggotface slurred, joining the conversation himself and briefly contemplating what a deep-fried dwarf might taste like. "We'sz have ah rep-o-tashion to up'olds!"

"And I'm not a Freelancer," Terminos muttered under his breath but, sighing, nodded his head in reluctant agreement. After coming this far he didn't want to return to Orgrimmar empty-handed.

Gorakinos, having recollected some of his composure, tossed a gold coin Rutgar's way and thanked him. "Thanks for the information. Spirits willing, it will prove useful to us. And now, we will be on our way."

"LET ME GO ALREADY! I DON'T WANT ANY PART OF YOUR MONKEY BUSINESS!"

Terminos, wondering once again how Noktog could speak so loudly despite his small stature, chuckled from sadistic amusement. "But before we go, I need to rescue my imp," he said, not really seeming in any hurry to do so.

They waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

And...it's not worth saying how long they waited, but eventually Terminos did rescue his disgruntled imp from Glibb's hairy paws, and the mercenaries continued on their way.

------

"What'sssshhh takingsh you sho long?" Maggotface questioned impatiently, gazing first at Terminos who was seeing the world through his Eye of Kilrogg and then Gorakinos who was projecting his vision over the Twilight's Hammer camps through the ability of Far Sight. A giant crystal stood forebodingly over them, providing scant protection from the sand storm raging across Silithus. Not getting an answer, he sighed and leaned against his skeletal warhorse. "You'zsh spying on the female druidsh bathhouse likesh you did in Ashenvale, aren't you?"

"That was an accident!" Gorakinos protested, hastily returning his vision to his body and approaching the Forsaken warrior with clear anger. "I was trying to pinpoint a group of satyrs, and it was pure coincidence that the local female night elves and dryads were performing a cleansing ceremony at that pond!"

"Keep your lecherous adventures to yourselves," Terminos ordered irately, feeling a headache coming on. "I could care less and have the much more important task of locating that accursed parcel before the cultists detect our scryings."

"You're too late. We already have."

As one, the three Freelancers drew their weapons and turned in the direction of the voice. They were therefore rather surprised when a wave of raw elemental power assaulted them from behind, causing their mounts to flee in a panic. Coughing up sand from where he'd fallen, Gorakinos rolled back onto his feet and, calling upon the elements for aid, returned fire at the first of the cultists he saw with a blast of primal energy from the earth. For the second time that day, he was again surprised when his Earthshock bounced off its target and flew back at him, knocking him to the ground and into unconsciousness. A similar fate befell Terminos who found his own Shadowbolts a bitter pill to swallow. Within moments only Maggotface was left standing, and the beleaguered Forsaken launched himself at the cultists with his sword.

"EN TARO ADUN!" the fearless warrior screamed, kicking, punching, and slicing his way through his attackers whose magic spells did not protect them from cold metal. Mafo shrugged off their sleep spells, ignored their Shadow Words which could not begin to compare to one of his hangovers, laughed at the biting sting of their own melee weapons, and filled their hearts with terror. On land, surrounded by enemies, the Forsaken was in his element. There was no water to slow him down, and his instincts honed by years of fighting that not even undeath and pandaren brew could rob him off practically sang to him. He was tireless and unstoppable...at least until a cultist in Dreadmist who'd been watching everything from a safe distance made a gesture and imprisoned his legs in a block of ice. As the Forsaken hissed angrily, he briefly wondered why the cultists near him were running away now that they held the advantage. A large and growing shadow directed his attention upward, and a heavy, magically summoned boulder that was rapidly approaching answered his question.

"Aw shucks," Maggotface chimed, uttering a cry of pain as the rock landed on and pinned him the ground. One of the cultists launched a last shadow spell for good measure, and the warrior finally joined his comatose comrades in defeat.

"Heh, works every time," the Dreadmist-clad human spoke up, evidently the leader of this group. "Combine a little misdirection with the element of surprise, and it's amazing what you can accomplish. I'm such a brilliant evil overlord." He grinned and held the smile on his face as if waiting for something. A moment passed and then another moment, and the edges of the grin turned into a dangerous frown. "Guys and gals, we've been over this before. When I say that I'm a brilliant evil overlord, you respond with what?"

An embarrassed silence met this statement as the other cultists helped their injured brethren to their feet and attempted to heal their wounds with magic, but finally and with very little enthusiasm they replied, "ALL HAIL VYRAL THE VILE, THE BEST EVIL OVERLORD THIS SIDE OF KALIMDOR! HE'S PURE EVIL GENIUS!"

"Much better," Vyral the Vile said, his ominous expression disappearing now that his ego had been stroked. "Now that my awesome, unsurpassed intellect has led us to victory, bind the prisoners and bring them to our cave's cell. They don't appear to be agents of the Cenarion Circle, and I'm interested in learning why they were scrying our bases. After we've interrogated them, we can have a good old-fashioned, traditional sacrifice to the Old Gods by killing them and their mounts on our alters. As for-...there's a demon near us. Everyone, on your guard!" he commanded, nose wrinkling in distaste at the alien presence.

Realizing that he'd been detected, Noktog sprang out from behind the small rock he'd been hiding behind and, taking a quick look around him, decided discretion was the better part of valor and ran for his demonic life. "I-I-I-I'll beee-e-e ba-a-ack to sa-a-a-ave yooouu la-a-ater ma-aster!..May-ay-ay-ay-be!"

"After that imp!" Vyral ordered three underlings who immediately took off after the surprisingly quick demon. "The less contaminated this world is when the Old Gods return the more pleased they'll be! As for the rest of you, return to base!"

With that, the representatives of the Twilight's Hammer rolled the stone off Maggotface and disappeared into the sand storm with their wounded and the prisoners in tow.

------

"HELP ME!"

"Hm? I wonder if trouble is brewing," Sinjo Honeybrew commented as he set a large bamboo keg he'd just dug out of the sand on the ground near his campground and turned to face the source of the plea with a curious expression on his black and white furry face. Seeing a rapidly approaching imp, his eyes briefly narrowed and an unreadable but vaguely threatening look crossed his features, but it was replaced with his usual merry demeanor when he recognized the summoned creature as one of Mafo's traveling companions. "Oi! What troubles you, demon?!"

Hearing what sounded like a friendly voice, Noktog immediately veered towards it and was standing in front of Sinjo and panting heavily within a few moments. "Twilight Cultists -gasp- ambushed us! -wheeze- Only I -cough- escaped! Master, Gora, and Maggotface are in -hack- trouble!"

The pandaren's face filled with concern as heard this. "Friend Mafo is in danger? Truly this is troubling news to which the only reaction can be a rescue attempt. The bonds of comradeship we forged over fine ale demand nothing less. I shall dedicate my mind and body to this purpose, but first a drink is in order. Kanpai!"

Noktog looked on confused as the pandaren reverently removed the keg's lid and gently stirred the liquid contents around with his traveling staff. "Your friend is in the clutches of a group of crazy cultists who might kill him at any moment or commit other unspeakable (at least if you don't want to go above a PG-13 rating) acts, and you want to take the time to enjoy a mug of beer? As much as I approve of your utter callousness and willingness to indulge yourself at the expense of others, WHAT ARE YOU CRAZY?!!"

Sinjo laughed mirthfully. "Not at all, demon. I'm actually a connoisseur, and letting a masterpiece such as this-" He gestured at the keg. "-go to waste would be a crime against art. This is my specialty Azeroth in a Cup recipe, and it has taken me the better part of my life to brew this work in progress. My childhood was spent in Pandaria sampling ale from all over the world, and my youth was spent traveling the world and learning how to create the alcoholic beverages of each race. Only then did I dare to start devising my own recipes instead of mere imitation and improvement, but I was still merely a journeyman plying and learning his trade. This keg, however, will mark my elevation to the rank of a true master."

The imp's eyes widened more and more from sheer puzzlement as the pandaren continued his enthusiastic lecture. "The rich heritage of dwarf ale, the potency of orc liquor, the subtlety of elfin wine, the refreshing taste of tauren tea, the innovativeness of human beer, the primality of troll concoctions, the inventiveness of gnome breweries, the refreshing bitterness of Forsaken sake, even the invigorating saltiness of murloc cocktails, and so many more recipes are artfully combined in such a way that they complement and enhance each other in Azeroth in a Cup. I scoured all of Azeroth for the proper ingredients, from Stratholme to Stranglethorn, over and under the Maelstrom, across the Broken Isles, through the icy wastes of Northrend, down from Winterspring, and to Silithus where, after an entire week spent carefully mixing the brew together I buried it in the burning desert sands to ferment for over a year. Now, at long last, I have returned to taste the result of my labor. As a fellow admirer of drink, I'm sure friend Mafo can understand why even his rescue must be postponed for this."

Pulling his staff out of the keg's contents, Sinjo withdrew a drinking mug from one of his pockets and, almost religiously, began to lower it into the keg, inhaling the strong, alcoholic fumes wafting up from the brew with a blissful smile on his furry face. Before he could fill the cup, though, tragedy struck.

"There he is! Kill him!" one of the three Twilight cultists shouted, having finally caught up with the imp. The pursuers extended their arms and, channeling the primal elemental forces of the world, launched a hail of stone and ice at the demon. Panicked, Noktog leapt out of the way, and the projectiles narrowly missed him and struck the keg instead, penetrating the wooden barrel and breaking it open.

Time slowed down for Sinjo as he witnessed the destruction of his masterpiece. The rich, beautifully blended alcoholic liquid that had taken him years to brew gushed forth onto the desert sands and quickly seeped into the mysterious depths of ancient Silithus. Feeling as if he had just been stabbed in the heart, the brewmaster fell on his hands and knees in abject misery, unashamed of the tears that streamed down his black and white face. He screamed once, a primal cry of utter despair and overpowering grief that reverberated across the haunted desert and froze the three cultists where they stood. Not running when they had the chance would prove to be a mistake for them.

The sorrow receded into the recesses of Sinjo's mind as another emotion rushed to the surface: rage. Searing, indescribable rage and passionate anger unlike any he had ever felt before. It consumed his being, intoxicating him with a fervent madness that few if any of the beverages he'd sampled had ever matched, and the enraged pandaren brewmaster turned eyes filled with the unmistakable desire for revenge on the cultists and uttered a mighty, terrifying warcry.

"I BRING PANDAMONIUM!!!"

Noktog wisely decided to keep his distance.

------

Deep within the dark, winding passages of the cave known to some as Twilight's Run, Vyral the Vile sat at his crystalline desk in his private quarters and caught up on his reading. On his bookshelf were several titles, including the newest edition of the Twilight Lexicon, "How I Became the Queen-Bitch of the Universe and Lived to Tell About It" by Sarah Kerrigan the Queen of Blades, Gul'dan's "You Cannot Be Denied: Self-Help for the Aspiring Evil-Doer," "This is Why I Ended it All: An Autobiography" by Teron Gorefiend, and Onyxia's "Fashion: Be Bad but Look Good!" among other scrolls and tomes -- some of which even glowed in the dark and spoke in alien, maddening tongues when people weren't looking -- and, judging by their apparent state of well-worn use, it was obvious that they were read very often. At the moment, though, the cult leader was skimming through a copy of Brann Bronzebeard's "Lands of Mystery" he'd gotten from one of the Twilight's spies in Ironforge, and his Dreadmist Mask did nothing to hide his scowl.

"This is an OUTRAGE! An utter, incomprehensible outrage!" the evil overlord exclaimed angrily, glaring at the text he was holding in his hands as if he could somehow magically make the words change. Granted, he could if he really wanted to but it would only affect this version, and that was totally beside the point anyway! "How DARE Bronzebeard include Twilight Lord Everun and Highlord Demitrian in his description of Silithus but EXCLUDE me, the great and cunning Vyral the Vile?! If you weren't missing again, I'd make sure you drowned in the Abyssal Maw you adventuring alcoholic dwarven pest!"

Forcing himself to calm down, Vyral took a deep breath and continued reading through the guidebook. He marked a few entries of interest as he perused the sections on the South Seas and Northrend, pausing a minute to highlight the passage on Crystalsong Forest and inscribe the words "Investigate this later!" on the page. He took special care to pay close attention to the chapter on civilizations and remember any details he could possibly use later for recruiting, although he doubted if the Twilight's Hammer started a chapter on Northrend that they'd have a lot of luck converting the magnataur to their cause. When he reached "Adventures," however, Vyral couldn't stop himself from breaking out in laughter.

"Hahaha! A fel-sworn tauren runemaster! As if!" Vyral the Vile remarked skeptically, chuckling at the sheer absurdity of the idea. "That's about as likely as a tauren rogue!"

"Funny you should say that..."

Before the cult leader could fully register the words, a large, hairy hand grabbed him by the neck from behind and lifted him out of his chair. Five strong fingers simultaneously slammed into his back, striking what Vyral could only guess were esoteric pressure points because, although he could still feel the rest of his body, he suddenly couldn't move anything above his head.

"Don't worry," the large, horned figure spoke in a voice that was less than reassuring. "Assuming you cooperate, you'll regain full movement and won't even remember this encounter. Assuming you cooperate, of course. If you don't...well, I know other methods of interrogation."

Vyral shivered fearfully while a detached portion of his mind made notes. That was a pretty impressive menacing inflection. He'd have to try it out on his own underlings one of these days. Of course, he would have to get out of this predicament first, and whatever his assailant had done to his body was also affecting his ability to cast spells. There appeared to be only one way to save his skin..."What -gulp- do you want to know?"

With what could've been a smirk on his face, the tauren rogue answered, "Tell me...you wouldn't happen to know the whereabouts of a chest you stole from the Bronzebeard Encampment a couple days ago, would you? It should have a Stormwind crest affixed to it..."


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Freelancers -- A True Story That Never Happened

Author: Rowan Seven (Gorakinos)

Rating: PG-13

Teaser: The Freelancers learn that there are some contracts they'd be better off refusing.

Disclaimer: The following story is set in the world of Blizzard's Warcraft series. All characters, concepts, and environments are copyrights of their respective owners. I am not making any money off this piece of fiction. Information is used freely from the Warcraft games, books, and RPG series, and spoilers may be present in the following tale.

Author's Notes: The desire to write something about my main "World of Warcraft" character and the Freelancers guild on the U.S. Cenarion Circle server has been with me for some time now, and this idea suddenly appeared in my head with such intensity that I felt compelled to begin. To my fellow Freelancers, I hope you enjoy this tale. It has been a joy to play the game with you, and although the guild has since disbanded we had some pretty good times we can be proud of.

Addendum: I started writing this story in the Fall of 2005 (back when Zul'Gurub was relatively new content) and finished several months ago.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Staghelm's Point was an ancient tower of night elven design, dating back to the War of the Shifting Sands over a thousand years ago when the night elves allied with the dragonflights to push back the advancing qiraji armies who sought -- and, according to some, still seek behind their walls -- to bring the entire world under the domination of their dark god. It had originally been built to stand vigil over the silent sands of Silithus and warn should the ancient evils that lay buried beneath them ever stir again, but even for the formerly immortal night elves one thousand years was a terribly long time and the tower soon passed out of memory, forgotten by all but its lone occupant and the draconic guardians who ensured that she maintained her long, lonely vigil.

Today, observing the events that would soon take place below, Ralo'shan the Eternal Watcher, herald for a new age, would laugh uproariously for the first time in hundreds of years.

------

Twilight Geolord S'kuj peered with his right eye through the telescope he was holding up and did a double-take at what he saw. Troll face rapidly becoming an image of astonishment, he shook his head and started cursing. "Spirits, mon, dis not be good."

"What's thai matter this time, S'kuj? The Argent Dawn isn't on ano'der recruitment drive, are they? Honestly, no matter haigh many times we say no they never give up..." muttered the troll's armored companion, dwarven Twilight Enforcer Dirk Zincglow. "Ai moost say, I much pre'her the Twilight's Hammer's method of recruitment. We find talented individuals -- sanity's optional, ah course! -- and ask them politely once. If thay say nay, we depart. If they're exceptionally talented and say no, we kill them so they can't use their toolents against us. Aither way, they never hear from us again! Ha!" Dirk started laughing as if he'd just said the funniest thing in the world, which in his opinion was obviously true, but S'kuj whose sense of humor belonged in the category called everyone but Dirk Zincglow only sighed, exasperated, and numbly handed over the telescope to the dwarf's curious hands.

"Oh. Is that all?" Dirk spoke calmly, sounding disappointed at the sight of the distant but rapidly approaching ball of black and white fur and bamboo. "Ait's only oh silly pandaren coming to attack us. What ey you so worried about?

S'kuj hissed contemptuously, low esteem he held the young races in further validated in his mind by the dwarf's complete obliviousness to the danger they were in. Honestly, it was because of ignorance like this that he was looking forward to the day the Old Gods were liberated and returned the world to primeval, elemental chaos and fury. "Ju are a fool, Dirk. Doncha know that da goblins place better odds on a last-stand against an army of demons d'an an army of just about anything versus a pandaren brewmaster? Da only hope we have is to retreat to da cave and hit 'im wid everything we got at once."

Dirk shook his head, amused at how worried the troll was over such a seemingly insignificant threat. "Oh c'mon, S'kuj! Ya know that thoose goblins rig thai odds anyway, and besides! He's only one ma-...er, panda! The Cult's patrools should take care o'im in no time!"

Silently, the wizened troll gestured back in the direction of the pandaren and indicated that the armored dwarf should look through the telescope again. Dirk did, and in addition to the sight of a snarling, enraged pandaren saw the battered bodies of a pair of sentries upside-down and buried up to their waists in the sand. "Big deal," the Enforcer muttered sarcastically. "Ah've seen plenty o' night elf hunters do the same thang t'or boys before. That still doesn't change thai fact that once the panda encounters the bulk of our forces he's going down."

CRASH!

As one, the troll and dwarf slowly turned and gazed quietly at the metal-clad figure that had been violently tossed through the air and landed with many unpleasant cracking sounds behind them. Fortunately the man's present state of unconsciousness prevented them from hearing his screams of pain.

S'kuj raised an eyebrow, and Dirk sighed. "A'kay, maybe we do have a wee bit o' a problem on our hands..."

------

The Twilight's Hammer was once the name of a clan of Warchief Doomhammer's Horde. Led by the ogre magi Cho'gall, its members had believed with a fanatical frenzy that they were harbingers of apocalyptic doom. Ironically enough, doom found them first when they aided the orc warlock Gul'dan and sailed with him in his fatal attempt to claim the power of the Dark Titan Sargeras. Why the cult took its name from Cho'gall's destructive ambitions was a mystery, but they too shared the clan's dark vision and sought to release the Old Gods of Azeroth from their Titan-created prisons and return the world to its Pre-Ordering state. Their numbers were legion, with cells stretching across all of Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. Their resources were incalculable, possessing some of the best minds in Azeroth and untold treasures. Their power was unquestionable, a dream that encompassed the arcane and the divine and practically every race in the world and fused them into a single purpose. They were the Twilight's Hammer...

...and Sinjo Honeybrew was knocking them silly faster than a cloth quartermaster accepts donations of runecloth.

One of the smarter Twilight Geolords, seeing the rapidly approaching whirlwind of black and white furry violence that was tearing through their defenses faster than a Thunder Lizard stampede through just about anything, cupped his hands to his mouth and issued new orders. "Summon reinforcements! The Abyssal Council will punish us severely if we let ourselves be defe-ack!" he finished on a pain-filled note as a wooden staff slammed across the front of his face, breaking his nose and sending him plunging headfirst into unconsciousness. His command, though, was heard and frantically obeyed with the speed of the desperate. Crystals glowed and the barriers between dimensions weakened as the Twilight's Hammer sent a call for help directly to their superiors.

A flash of light heralded the arrival of the first templar, and the fiery creature roared with the full fury of flame. Words erupted where there was no mouth, searing and penetrating the minds of all nearby. "Who dares disturb the-"

SPLISH!

A stream of a brown alcoholic beverage spewed forth from Sinjo's mouth with more force than the waters of Bloodvenom Falls, extinguishing the elemental and prematurely ending its tenure on this plane. For just a moment, outlined by the sun and surrounded by the devastation and chaotic magics left in his wake, a dim green glow seemed to briefly outline the pandaren's figure, and if one listened very closely they might have heard a single word.

"Friendly."

Probably not, though.

------

When the Titans ordered the ancient world, they created a series of interlocking but separate planes. Azeroth became the home for countless species of plants and animals, a panorama of life guided and enhanced by the nurturing energies of the Well of Eternity. The Emerald Dream existed as a hidden paradise, a realm of dreams and visions and primordial splendor untouched by the races of Azeroth that would forever serve as a monument to what the world could've been and perhaps could still yet become. To the Elemental Plane went the defeated partisans of the Old Gods, elemental creatures of earth, air, fire, and water. There they would remain for the rest of eternity, no longer able to influence and interfere with the evolution of the Titan's ordered world...

...or so the plan had been. Time passed, and, ironically, the races of the new world did what the elementals could not from their prison and breached the walls separating the planes. Some sought knowledge, others power, but whatever the motivation the oftentimes disastrous consequences left behind spaces where the fabric of reality was stretched and an elemental with the power and mind to could lead an army into Azeroth and launch an invasion.

The Windreaver was one such elemental. Physical form a nearly intangible cyclone wreathed with effulgent bolts of lightning in whose storm a balefully glowing pair of eyes could be discerned, the celestial general spoke no words to herald his arrival. Unlike Ragnaros' servants whose brilliance was only matched by their overwhelming desire to consume, Neptulon's minions with their minds as deep and bottomless as the ocean, and even Therazane's precocious children, to him language was an imperfect instrument he did not use. The roar of the gale was all he needed to communicate, and there was no misunderstanding his intentions as he coalesced in the rocky, charred northwest corner of Silithus with a legion of lesser elementals under his command.

He was the Windreaver. He was a force of nature that only fools reckoned with. And he was completely unaware of the role he would play in the day's drama. Granted, that was mostly because he didn't have a role to play in the day's drama, but tomorrow...well, tomorrow would be a very different story indeed.

------

The cries of pain and screams of panic emanating from Twilight's Run had only increased with the passage of time.

"Not in the face! Not in the face!"

Ka-plow! WHACK!

"Feel the wrath of the Abyssal Counci-"

THOMP!

"Quickly! Summon the Duke of Clubs!"

"Sure thi-...you fool! We're an evil cult, not a card game! There is no Duke of Clubs!"

"You sure? I know I've heard Princess Myzrael referred to as the Queen of Hearts before!"

Bap! BAM!

"Someone please, pinch me so I can wake up from this nightmare!"

"Sure thing!"

SLAP!

"Ouch!"

"Not there, you pervert!"

Crackle-crackle-crackle-crackle-BOOM!

"ENOUGH!"

The authoritative command rang across the battlefield, ruthlessly demanding and quickly receiving silence. The fighting stopped, the fleeing halted their retreats, the unconscious remained immobile, and even Sinjo Honeybrew ceased his destructive rampage long enough to seek out the source of the voice that had penetrated his enraged mind. The seconds felt like minutes as all eyes turned to the mouth of the cave where the robed figure of Vyral the Vile emerged theatrically from the shadows with graceful, confident steps.

"This...is an embarrassment!" he decried, scolding his underlings. "The Twilight's Hammer is a dark cabal of the blackest hearts this world has to offer, and yet we're powerless to stop one overgrown panda? If most of you didn't need medical treatment already I'd make sure you did myself! You lot are pathetic!"

The evil overlord locked gazes with the pandaren. "You will rue the day you dared raise your furry fists against us," he vowed direly, bloodshot eyes saturated with anger within the darkness of his hood. After waking up in his chair with a splitting headache, an ache that felt like a boulder had slammed into his back, and no memory of when he'd fallen asleep, and then learning that his legions of followers were being utterly trounced by a single intruder...well, needless to say, Vyral the Vile was not in a good mood. "Normally I'd be sporting and offer you the chance to say a few last words, but I want you to suffer as only the tortured souls of the damned know how to describe. Whoever you are and wherever you came from, witness the true power of the Twilight's Hammer!"

With an agonized, ecstatic shout, Vyral raised his head and arms to the heavens and launched a sphere of writhing shadows into the air. It traveled several yards before shattering with an earsplitting crackle into dozens of needlelike slivers that soared towards the mysterious, humming crystals of all shapes and sizes scattered around the camp. Some had been carved and erected as the centerpiece of summoning stations, others still floated unchanged and unharnessed above the ground, but when the dark magic reached them they simultaneously flashed. The camp was enveloped by pure white light and an overpowering whine as the barriers between dimensions were torn to shreds, and when the cultists could see and hear again they were flanked by elementals of all types and ranks.

Vyral the Vile grinned triumphantly as he gazed at the stolid brewmaster. "On second thought, I believe I can afford to be charitable after all. So...any last words, pandaren?"

"Just four," Sinjo Honeybrew spoke with chilling calm and an even icier smile on his ursine face. He straightened and, with a growl, slammed his staff dead center in front of him and, suddenly, there were three of him.

"Storm!"

"Earth!"

"And Fire!"

THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-

Honored.

WHAP-CRACK-WHAP-CRACK-WHAP-CRACK-

Revered.

BAM-BOOM-BAM-BOOM-BAM-BOOM-BAM-BOOM-

Exalted.

THOMP-THUD-THWACK-WHAP-CRACK-CRACKLE-BAM-BOOM-

Deification. Congratulations. You are the Cenarion Circle's new god.

"Note to self," Noktog muttered quietly from a safe distance away where he was watching the carnage unfold. "If there's ever a battle between a pandaren brewmaster and anything else and there are goblins nearby, put your money on the bear." A thought occurred to him. "Unless the anything else is an army of wisps."

"GROOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAARRRRR!"

It was over a minute before the imp could hear his own voice again and another minute before his body stopped rattling, the deafening battle cry having swept over the demon with more force and power than an earthquake. Recovering from the shocks, Noktog tilted his head to the side ponderingly and came to a decision. "Scratch that," the imp said quickly, changing his mind. "Always bet on the panda."

------

It was with relief that Gorakinos awakened to find himself upside down and chained to a rock wall. The very fact that he had woken up (and still wearing his clothes to boot, a definite plus in the minds of what was to the orc a distressingly large number of people) gave him some reason to hope that he might be able to escape and return to his home in the wilds of Azshara. Even Orgrimmar with its crowds and noise looked pretty good right now.

"Ssheven hundredsh -hiccup- thoushand siz hundrah thirdy-two bottles of gro-o-og on sha wall, sshev-"

Then again, maybe death wouldn't be so bad after all...

Dreading that his eyes would confirm what his ears already revealed, the shaman nonetheless opened his pair of blue orbs and shivered at the horrifying truth of his predicament. He was in a small, four-sided cell carved out of solid stone illuminated by a pale blue luminescence provided by a glowing gem affixed to the oblong ceiling. Across from him and also hanging upside down was Terminos, looking none too pleased and with an irate scowl on his face. Next to him on the left was a solid wooden door, and to the right was Mafo Jushilit, also with his head closer to the ground than his feet and, much to the orc's dismay, singing. Any doubts he might've had about whether the Twilight's Hammer cult was evil rapidly vanished.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, so to speak," the undead warlock remarked sarcastically, noticing that his second cellmate was finally conscious again. "Believe it or not, this is not the Great Dark Beyond. I've already died once and would know if it happened again, although judging by how things are currently going for us I'd guess that we'll be meeting our 'ancestors' soon enough. And on that note, let me thank you for inviting me to join this little quest, Gorakinos. I can practically see the glory and riches now."

"-dred thirshty-sheven bottles oooof gro-"

"No need to be pessimistic, Terminos," Gorakinos retorted evenly, trying his hardest to ignore the nearby Forsaken warrior. "I've gotten out of more difficult situations than this in the past."

"Such as?" Terminos inquired with false curiosity.

A long silence followed, assuming one excludes the singing. "Um...well, there was this one trip I made into the Ragefire Chasm a while ago," the orc proffered unconvincingly. "And then there was my foray into Gnomeregan. Trying to swat the ferocious gnomish legions when they didn't even reach my kneecaps was quite challenging, I can tell you. I couldn't sell my boots afterwards either because they were in such bad condition!"

The dark arcanist rolled his eyes. "Great. You have completely reassured me, Gorakinos. I, too, recently prevailed against terrifying odds when I overcame the mighty strength of a sinister, conniving rat with beady little eyes last month, so I'm confident that between the two of us we'll be able to think of something that'll let us escape from this prison, take out all the guards, and even find some treasure while we're at it." You could melt arcanite with the venom lacing his words.

"-forty-wunsh...eshcape? Daz -hic- eashy-"

Still ignoring Maggotface, the orc reflexively tried to shrug his broad shoulders, regretting the action a moment later as the chains dug into his green skin. "Ouch. Anyway, I'm already working on that. It should be a simple matter for me to transform into my ghost wolf form to extricate myself from these restraints, free the two of you, trick the guards into opening the door, steal their uniforms, and then stealthily make our way out of this cave."

"Except that an aura of magical silence pervades this entire room, preventing the casting of any spells," Terminos spoke matter-of-factly, taking a perverse sense of delight in pointing out the holes in his companion's schemes.

Gorakinos thought about this for a minute. "Well then, perhaps I could go into a blood rage and, using my enhanced orcish strength, break free, smash the door down, hurl my body through the Astral Plane to the Cenarion Hold, and raise a party to come back and rescue you two?"

"-Reashly, youz augh ma-ma-making thissh more di-dif-diffi-...harder than it ish-"

Terminos cocked his head to the side dryly. "My succubus has taught me a few things about chains, and it'll take more than brute strength to loosen these manacles. Besides, do you really believe the Cenarion Circle would send a rescue party after Mafo Jushilit? They're more likely to give the Twilight's Hammer a fruit basket out of gratitude for killing him."

"All -hiccup- yoush ne-eeds ta do ish..."

"Mmm..." Gorakinos pondered, straining for ideas and refusing to become discouraged probably more to spite the nearby warlock than from a realistic assessment of their chances. "Well, I suppose I could wiggle my way out using troll contortionist techniques, make a homemade explosive device out of the natural materials available in this cell, dynamite a path to the cell that is likely right next to us and indubitably holding a beautiful elemental princess in need of rescuing, and then concoct an elaborate escape plan that will deal a serious blow to the Twilight's Hammer and earn us a hefty reward from the princess' mother too."

"-ish..."

"That idiotic plan has more holes in it than Kelen the Seeker has lives!" Terminos retorted, unamused. "And just in case you're foolish enough to try it, which I believe you are, attempting to perform troll contortionist techniques isn't recommended unless you have a regeneration factor."

"-ish...you're nock lisszzhening, aren'tcha? 'Guesh I'll just do ish, den."

"Well, why don't you think of something to get us out of here, then?" Gorakinos inquired snidely. "You must be full of great ideas, after criticizing mine so readily."

Terminos snorted. "Simpleminded fool. I'll have you know-"

SNIIIICKT! SNAP!

The sounds of decayed flesh tearing and bones snapping interrupted Gorakinos and Terminos' bickering, and the two quickly turned to look at Maggotface who had pulled his left arm so hard that it had messily separated from his hand at the wrist where the manacle was. The five-fingered fist fell to the ground with a sickly splat, and the warrior raised his new free arm and slammed the bony end down hard on the manacle imprisoning his other arm. With a disturbingly cheerful grin on his features, the Forsaken repeated the action again and again as his partners watched in mute amazement until finally the metal band, unable to take any more abuse, cracked and shattered. With both arms freed, Maggotface then proceeded to wriggle his way through the chains wrapped around his waist, drunken haze numbing him to the pain of joints bending in ways they weren't supposed to and shredded skin. Upper body liberated, he sat up and used the arm with a bone sticking out of the end where his hand was a few minutes ago as a mace and proceeded to batter the manacles fastening his legs until they too gave in. No longer fastened to the wall, the warrior crashed to the ground with a yelp.

"Seesh? Eshcaping ish -hic- eashy!" Maggotface proclaimed proudly, rolling over and slowly standing back up. He then, much to the warlock and shaman's surprise, rammed his fist into his throat (a feat made easier by his missing lower jaw) and, with a dramatic flourish, withdrew a skeleton key. "Thanksh to Ishtallah olwayz locking ma up, I've got plenty umph practish," he confided happily as he stumbled his way over to his partners and with unexpected skill unlocked their chains and freed them.

Gorakinos rose to his feet and gazed at the warrior disbelievingly. "Um...thank you Maggotface. That was the most...eye-catching escape I've ever seen. How are you -achem- feeling? Arm isn't hurting too badly, is it?"

"Nope! Why shouldshz it?" Mafo asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

"Er...nevermind," the orc spoke gently, shaking his head in bemusement. Really, the world hadn't made sense since he'd first embarked on this contract, so why should the present moment be any different?

Ignoring the other two occupants of the cell, Terminos stalked over to the wooden door and examined it carefully. "We're not free yet so don't start celebrating. We still need to break down this door and get out of this cave. I don't suppose you're hiding a battering ram in your gullet, Mafo?"

Perhaps fearing that the answer would be yes, Gorakinos spoke up first. "Don't worry about that. I can take care of this door." Cracking his knuckles once, the orc walked over to the barrier and took a deep breath, motioning with his right arm for the warlock and warrior to back-up. With a callous shrug and a hiccup, respectively, the two did, and the orc exhaled. Simultaneously, a change overtook him as his previously calm demeanor vanished and an angry growl grew in his throat. Muscles bulged and veins thickened as Gorakinos embraced his racial blood rage, and he glared at the door with eyes filled with a ferocious fury made all the more frightening by the cold intelligence still visible within them. Moving so fast that the actions were almost instantaneous, the shaman linked his fists together, raised them above his head, and then brought them crashing down on the wooden slab standing between him and freedom. The door bent and shuddered but somehow managed to hold, but even as he drove his clasped hands in deeper the orc pushed off with his feet and lunged headfirst at the wooden board which finally splintered in two under this double assault. Not wasting a moment, Gorakinos ducked and rolled into the new, larger cavern he found himself in, jumping to his feet and prepared to tackle the first guard he laid eyes on. Unexpectedly and anticlimactically, though, there was no one in sight and only silence greeted his escape.

"This is odd," Gorakinos mused, blood rage fading and momentarily replaced by a wave of weariness. "Where are the sentries? Surely the Twilight's Hammer didn't leave us completely unguarded." He almost sounded insulted at the idea.

"Who caresh?" Maggotface slurred as he also ducked and rolled out of the cell because it had looked like so much fun when his partner did it. "Better to goesh w'en sha going ash good than ta go when it ishn't. Trush me, the one time ah didn't folla tha' advice I wokesh up dead."

Shrugging once uneasily, the orc nodded his head. "I suppose you're right. Still, let's stick to the shadows and be on the lookout for cultists. I'd rather be safe than sorry here." Very carefully and as quietly as he could, Gorakinos moved forward, listening to the gentle guidance of the stones for assistance in finding the path to the surface. Much more obviously but still with surprising stealth, Maggotface followed. Terminos watched his two traveling companions go and briefly contemplated whether staying put in prison would be preferable. He cursed at the reluctant conclusion that it probably wasn't worth it and took off after them, pausing for a moment to grab Mafo's severed hand just in case it could be used later and sticking it in the pockets of his voluminous robes.

The trio's wonderment grew as they passed through more of the apparently hastily abandoned cave. Clothes, food, and books were scattered about on the ground, tables, and chairs, looking as if they'd been dropped at a moment's notice as their owners rushed off to some other task. There was not a humanoid to be seen, and only the sounds of rats, snakes, and other small animals scurrying about let the Freelancers know that they weren't completely alone in the cave. Puzzled and confused, it was with relief that they spied the rays of daylight shining in through an opening in the tunnel ahead. Leaving the darkness behind them, they exited the subterranean world of Twilight's Run and emerged in the unforgiving desert of Silithus. In unison, Terminos and Gorakinos' jaws fell open in utter shock at the sight that greeted them. Maggotface settled for making a thumbs up gesture with his remaining hand.

The encampment was a wasteland, even going by Silithus' rather demanding standards. Tents were smashed, forged weapons of every sort were strewn just about everywhere, fires blazed and sent smoke and ashes drifting up into the air, and it looked like every summoning pavilion had been torn to shreds by hand (Hence why even months later adventurers cannot summon templars, dukes, and lords at the Twilight's Run camp). A person could barely take a step without tripping over a pair of the singed bracers that elementals often wear. And, standing in the center of it all, was Sinjo Honeybrew, calmly stirring the contents of a wooden keg with his staff as if he didn't have a care in the world. Behind him was a gigantic heap of the bruised, beaten, and in some cases painfully bent bodies of the Twilight's Hammer cultists. Noktog was vindictively jumping on top of them and eliciting further weak groans from the few still conscious enough to be aware of how much they hurt.

"Wha...what happened here?" Terminos asked in a bewildered tone, gaping in astonishment and awe at the destruction around him. Beside the warlock, Gorakinos was for once at a loss for words.

Sinjo looked up and, as he spied the trio, grinned jovially. "The Twilight's Hammer and I had a little...'disagreement' over respecting the intellectual property rights of others." His gaze briefly turned to look at the pyramid of bodies behind him. "I think I might've made my point a little too strongly, though." The regret his words implied wasn't reflected in his voice. "Anyway, shall we celebrate your regained freedom with a drink?" He held up a hairy hand and, almost magically, four mugs appeared in his paw through sleight of hand.

"Sinjo, I'sh like tha way you thinksh!" Maggotface exclaimed happily, wasting no time in joining his friend around the keg and grabbing one of the mugs to partake of the brew. Gorakinos and Terminos exchanged a look.

"Look at it this way," the warlock reasoned rationally after a moment's pause. "We can either deal with a happy, drunk Maggotface, or a Maggotface with a hangover of excruciating proportions the likes of which Scarlet interrogators haven't devised an equal to."

Gorakinos frowned but nodded his head in acquiescence. "When you put it like that...Anyway, I think I'll make use of this opportunity to ask the cultists a question or two. Hopefully one of the ones that can still speak knows where that blasted chest is. Besides, I don't know what's in that beverage, but it's so strong I can smell it from here and see the fumes rising in the air and, after everything's that happened, I don't want to take anymore chances."

Keeping a respectful distance from Sinjo just in case the pandaren proved to be less friendly than he seemed, the orc shaman walked over to pile of bodies and, at random, grabbed one of the cultists who still looked relatively lucid and roughly pulled him out of the pyramid of tangled limbs. "I've been attacked by pirates, impaled by ice, hit by my own spells, almost eaten by giant reptiles, and, worst of all, forced to endure off-key drinking songs all in the course of one contract. Needless to say, I'm not in a good mood," Gorakinos growled menacingly, holding the interrogated by the scruff of the neck. "Now, how you answer my next question will determine whether or not I become angry in addition to my already rotten disposition and, trust me, you won't like me when I'm angry." He grinned viciously, baring his fangs. "Where is the chest you cultists stole from the Bronzebeard Encampment the other day? The one with a Stormwind crest?"

The hapless cultist who, as coincidence would have it, happened to be Vyral the Vile made unrecognizable by the thorough thrashing he'd received and the absence of his Dreadmist Mask which had been reduced to a few scraps littering the ground, blinked in surprise at the question which jogged recently forgotten memories. Strangely, a crooked smile formed on his features, and it was with an air of malice that he struggled to raise his hand and point it in a northwesterly direction. "The chest?" Vyral repeated mockingly. "The silithid attacked the raiding party you speak of on their way back and made off with the pillaged loot. If the chest hasn't been destroyed, it lies within the recesses of Hive'Ashi. Claim it...if you can." 

Still grinning spitefully, the Twilight overlord let his head fall back and laughed diabolically, his baleful chuckling sending shivers down the spines of all vertebrates who heard it and what metaphorically passed as a spine for several invertebrates too until Gorakinos finally had enough and punched Vyral in the face, shutting him up by the effective method of knocking him unconscious.

------

With a cackle promising immeasurable pleasure, the demon materialized in Silithus under the night sky. Voluptuous to the point of open eroticism, the succubus spread her wings sensuously and posed seductively, left hand hugging her arresting hips and right holding a leather whip with the skill of an expert. Through half-lidded eyes in whose hypnotic depths countless souls had been lost, she took in her new surroundings and audience. A crackling bonfire warded off the desert's nighttime chill, and sitting around it were three figures. One she recognized as her master, the warlock Terminos. The second was another Forsaken clad in plate and wearing a leer so large that it practically covered his entire face. The third was an uneasy orc covered in wolf's skins trying his best and failing to look anywhere but at her.

"You have got to be kidding me," the demon complained, charming purring coming to a crashing halt as she let her disgust show although she was still in every way an enchantress. "Even if you paid me you couldn't pay me enough to seduce these two, Term."

"Don't call me Term!" the warlock commanded for the umpteenth time, annoyed at having to deal with more insubordination from what should be his loyal minions. "Your fears are unfounded, anyway. Not even I am that cruel, Betnys."

"Then what have you summoned me here for?" Betnys questioned archly, eyes narrowing beguilingly. "My policy of 'no, not even if you were the last male humanoid on the planet' still stands, you know."

Much to the succubus' surprise, instead of gritting his decayed teeth in further annoyance as she'd expected the warlock grinned cruelly. "You flatter yourself too much, my dear. Truth be told, I have something far more 'suitable' for your unique talents in mind." With a dry chuckle, he reached into his pockets and withdrew a serrated hand, a spool of thread, and a needle and then gestured at Maggotface who waved his mutilated arm suggestively.

"Please tell me you're kidding me," Betnys pleaded sickly, exceedingly unenthusiastic about her new task. A cute pout and gravity-defying bounce failed to change her master's mind, although the orc nearly keeled over. "I'm a seductress, not a seamstress, Term!"

Terminos shrugged indifferently, amusement over his minion's dissatisfaction plainly visible on his face. "That means nothing to me, demon. Now, I suggest you get started on reattaching my partner's hand to his wrist unless you want to be sacrificed. And it's Terminos!"

With a flattering huff, the demon sauntered over to her master, reluctantly grabbed the hand and sewing implements, and then meandered over to the grinning Forsaken warrior. "I know what you're thinking, mister, and if you don't keep your good hand to yourself you'll have lost far more than a fist by the end of tonight!"

To drive home her point, the succubus cracked her whip menacingly. Sadly for her, this seemed to have the opposite effect than intended on Maggotface whose leer, absent lower jaw notwithstanding, continued to grow. Seeing this, Terminos chuckled once from diabolical satisfaction and then turned to face his other partner who was becoming rather red in the face. "Reconsidering the spiritual path you've chosen, Gorakinos?" the warlock inquired tauntingly.

The orc coughed once and dragged his focus off the demonic temptress as she begrudgingly attended to Maggotface, simultaneously trying to stay as far away from him as possible and jabbing the needle harshly into his wrist. "Don't be absurd, Terminos," he replied a bit testily. "I was merely beside myself with horror over your pet's corruptive unnaturalness, and I'm NOT referring to her figure!" Deciding that it wouldn't be to his advantage to continue debating this topic, he changed the subject. "Anyway, didn't you say something earlier about having enough reserve mana to summon reinforcements? With Sinjo having departed to 'begin his journey of knowledge' over again, we can probably use all the help we can get."

Terminos nodded his head slowly. "I can summon one ally to our location, yes, but only one, which could be problematic because we don't know what the other Freelancers are up to as we speak and I'd rather not waste the mana on someone who's going to decline to join us." Under his breath, he muttered, "Not that I'd blame them if they did."

Gorakinos' face scrunched up in thought for a moment. "Hm...you know, I should be able to ask the spirits about my guildmates and which one of them would make a good addition to our party. Hopefully they'll answer and save us some time."

"You certain about that?" the warlock questioned doubtfully, placing more confidence in demons and forces that could be bound or broken than the usually intangible wisps of who knew what that existed ethereally. "Besides, doesn't asking such direct questions of your 'spirits' normally require a period of deep meditation and lengthy communion first?"

The shaman rolled his eyes underneath his coif. "Hardly. The spirits are always watching and all around us, in the air we breathe, the earth we walk on, the fires that warm us, the water that nurtures us, and the wilds that test us. Speaking to them is easy. Learning how to listen...now that's the hard part." The orc shrugged his broad shoulders once. "However, you are correct in that it helps to approach the spirits in a certain frame of mind, and fortunately for us since -- with all due respect -- neither your nor Maggotface and especially not your succubus' presences are conducive to meditative exercises I have some herbs that should hasten my mental journey."

"Herbs?" Terminos repeated with what could be called an arched eyebrow if you permitted allowances for undead whose hair has mostly either rotted or fallen out. "Have you been visiting the shady goods dealer in Booty Bay again?"

Maggotface guffawed and then winced as the succubus vindictively continued sewing his wrist back on as Gorakinos' face took on an affronted look. "I only bought something from him that one time to thank him for giving me directions! How was I supposed to know it was considered illegal contraband in the Eastern Kingdoms?!" Realizing that he was getting worked up again, he took a deep breath and tried to calm down. "Anyway, I'll have you know that these herbs come straight from the sages of Thunder Bluff, and there's nothing at all illicit about them! They're a mix of entirely natural herbs found in the untainted wilds of Kalimdor that soothe the mind and bring calm to the soul!"

"Whatever," the dark arcanist replied dubiously, having seen a fair number of tauren sharing pipes that he was sure contained mixtures and plants that the Royal Apothecary Society would pay an arm and a leg for...literally. "Just hurry up and do what you need to do. Arguing with you all night does not appeal to me."

"Nor me," the green-skinned mystic retorted evenly, hand reaching for and unhooking a small brown leather pouch from his belt. Almost reverentially, he loosened the bag's strap and let nearly a handful of multicolored ground bits of plants fall onto his upraised palm. Opening his mind and ears to the world around him, Gorakinos then slowly rose and approached the campfire, coming so close that another step would've taken him into the flames. With a quick wave of his hand, he dropped the herbs above the crackling flame and breathed in the green, hazy smoke that ascended from the fire.

"...I see dead people." Speaking in a stunned, bewildered voice, the orc took a few ponderous steps backwards with now dilated pupils and met Terminos' questioning gaze. "And I'm not referring to you two. Whoa, my hand is glowing!"

The warlock sighed as his partner suddenly took an active interest in his arm, shaking it in front of his eyes and giggling childishly at whatever it was he saw. "To think people actually wonder why anyone would choose the demon's path over this," he muttered sarcastically, belief that nearly everyone in the world was an idiot once again confirmed in his mind. "Gorakinos!" he spoke commandingly, nearly yelling at the hallucinating shaman, "Ask the spirits your question already!"

The orc ignored him and, to Terminos' surprise, turned chillingly serious and began to speak in a voice that was and was not his own. "What once was broken and forgotten shall be made whole again," he intoned in a solemn, passionless voice. "The armies of the dark one will march and fall, as shall the northern king's fortresses of death. The illusion of peace shall soon fade, though, as the broken portal opens again and new horrors confront the world. Bonds with unexpected allies will be forged and-" Suddenly and without warning, Gorakinos started laughing so hard that he fell to the ground and pounded the desert sand with his fists. "Hahaheheha! Blood Elf space pirates! Bwhahahahahahaha!"

For once, it was Maggotface's turn to ignore his guildmate as the orc rolled around on the ground, sides nearly bursting with laughter. He was having fun leering at the succubus and could care less if his partner made a fool of himself. Terminos, on the other hand, was much more anxious to get on with business and decided to set things back on track by the expedient method of kicking his green-skinned acquaintance in the stomach. "Stop laughing and tell me who to summon, you off-world brute! Rushlight, perhaps?"

"The troll archeologist? Nah, she's busy trying to find evidence supporting the theorized link between trolls and the ancient kaldorei," the mirthful shaman answered casually in between groans of pain. "Why she's so eager to prove that trolls are related to night elves, naga, high elves, satyr, blood elves, and maybe even harpies, dryads, and centaur is a mystery to me, though. Just picture what that family tree would look like!" He cackled in amusement. "Good guess, though. Keep trying!"

"Guess? This is not a game, fool!" Terminos scolded, kicking his partner again for good measure. This did nothing other than temporarily interrupt his laughter, though, and the warlock reluctantly decided to play along. "How about Chawne?" he asked hopefully, picturing in his mind the solemn but affable tauren druid who had the unique distinction of being one of the few practitioners of divine magic he'd actually concede was competent.

"Fighting for the future of Azeroth against the Firelord's minions in the fiery depths of the Molten Core," the orc replied in a distracted tone, eyes darting wildly in every direction following colorful hallucinations. "You could summon him, but Mirkanesh is going to need a healer pretty soon, and he's already a bit occupied right now trying to help roll a Molten Giant off Jalizza. I keep telling her to take it a little lighter on the shadowbolts, but she never listens! Hee!"

Despite himself, Terminos felt what remained of his lips curl upwards in the faintest indication of a grin at the mental image of that frustratingly cheerful Forsaken woman crushed under a vast magma elemental. He quickly squelched it, though, and soon his face returned to its normal scowl. "What about...Ishtallah?" he questioned, shivering once. He usually afforded mages a little respect because they were at least willing to try to harness the power of the arcane even if it was with methods that seemed to him tantamount to wearing child's protective gloves while holding a ten-foot pole, but Maggotface's witch of a ward chilled him to his unnaturally animated bones for in her he recognized the signs of one being controlled by the power she wielded instead of the other way around.

The shaman shrugged once and then rolled around in the sand for a few seconds trying to cope with his suddenly itching skin before answering. "Slowly going insane as arcane fire burns through her veins! If somebody doesn't help her soon, she'll be more messed up in the head than Maggotface!"

"I do -hiccup- my best to look ashter her," Maggotface piped up proudly from his seat near the fire. "It'sha the least ah can do sinsh she takes such good care o' me, alwaysh trying to tie me up and stuff. Di-did I tell yoush about the spiked manacles she used last month?"

For the first time that night, Betnys the succubus actually looked interested in what Maggotface was saying.

"...Anyway, the answer is- What was the question again? Oh yeah, who to summon, sorry, I got distracted by that technicolor rainbow over there," Gorakinos mumbled, pointing towards what appeared to Terminos to be merely empty space with his left hand. "Ishtallah is a big no-no unless you want to go home in an ice-cube. Next guess, please?"

The Forsaken warlock narrowed his eyes in annoyance. "This 'game' of yours is growing old, Gorakinos. I suggest you simply cut to the chase or let me use you to increase my supply of soul shards. Personally, I'm a little more partial towards the latter..."

"Phooey," the shaman retorted petulantly as he tried and failed to remember how to stand for more than three seconds. "Well, if you're going to be such a spoilsport, I'll give you a few hints." Not managing to stay on his feet, the orc decided to give standing on his head an attempt. The results weren't much different. "The person I have in mind isn't Jorb or Necrosan or-" Terminos began chanting dark words of arcane power, and even the denser than usual Gorakinos got the hint. "The name starts with an 'A'! and- Hey look, flying fish!"

Terminos raised his hand to his chin in contemplation as Gorakinos withdrew a Stoneclaw Totem from his pack and planted it in the ground, releasing an orcish sigh of disappointment as it failed to catch the fish only he could see. "How about Akinos?"

"Hm?" The shaman raised his head and managed to focus on the Forsaken caster for an impressive five seconds. "You mean my evil twin, except that he isn't? Nah, he's busy trying to talk his way into Useli's pants." Turning in the direction of what was Booty Bay half a world a way, the green-skinned adventurer shouted, "Keep it up, Akinos! You're wearing that vixen of a troll priestess down! Whoo!"

Terminos silently counted to ten in an effort to restrain himself from burning his less than lucid companion to a crisp. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when it worked. "Well then, is Azlana a possibility?"

Gorakinos shook his head in the negative and was once again overcome with sidesplitting laughter. This time the warlock did hurl a fireball at him, but the orc's guffaws continued albeit intermingled with cries of pain as he rolled on the ground in an effort to put the magical flames out. Terminos could only wonder what the shaman found so funny.

------

Azlana quietly cursed as she surveyed the metal wall in front of her and certified that yes, it was a dead end and yes, trying to use explosives wouldn't be a good idea because even if the force shattered the reinforced steel barrier an armory depot that probably contained highly volatile materials lay on the other side and if you did detonate a bomb gathering black lotus would be easier than collecting your body parts. Besides, this hallway was deep inside Gnomeregan's irradiated interior, and if through sheer luck the bomb did make a hole and the resulting explosion didn't blow you to kingdom come, you'd still have to deal with the ensuing host of leper gnomes that'd swarm into the area.

And so Azlana, Forsaken rogue and CEO of the Freelancers, cursed. She'd been doing that a lot lately, she reflected idly as she considered her next move. What should've been a simple retrieval job had turned into a deadly maze full of obstacles and traps around every corner, with enough mecha to build a second Gnomeregan out of causing no end of frustration for her. Making matters worse, she even had competition in this mechanical dystopia, a team of Alliance adventurers the likes of which she'd never seen before. They'd proved to be more of a nuisance than the screeching mobile sirens that kept trying to trip her. Still, she'd managed to locate and acquire what her employer had requested first, and if she could just find her way out of this metal deathtrap of a city everything would be dandy and-

The sound of approaching footsteps sent her reminiscence to a screeching halt, and she immediately reached for her daggers. She recognized this pattering of feet, knew who they belonged to and that stealth would be useless against them, and thus was determined to fight her pursuers head on with all the skill and underhanded tricks she knew. Besides, she needed to blow off some steam, and this would be a good chance to do it.

Fearlessly, Azlana turned and, hugging the side of the hallway, dashed forward with her weapons drawn and a ferocious grin on her face to meet her enemies. Seeing her was like watching an angel of death approach, but her opponents were undaunted and uttered their notorious battle cries.

"Gnomes, charge forth!" commanded the leader.

"For Gnomeregan!" came the resounding reply.

The first thing Azlana did with her reward money, long after her battle with the Invincible Legion of Unconquerable Vanquishing Gnomes, Logo 237, and her escape from Gnomeregan, was buy a new pair of shoes.

------

Terminos wracked his brain for more names of Freelancers and came up with an answer he could live with, loosely speaking of course. "Abitani, then?"

Gorakinos put out the last of the flames and leapt to his feet with a congratulatory shout which was soon replaced by a surprised yelp as he fell over again from an utter lack of balance. Lying on the ground, he spat out some sand and nodded his head. "Yep, he's the one you want to summon, mostly because if you don't he'll probably be dead in ten minutes and I heard that over five minutes ago, but I digress." The addled shaman tried to rise again, decided against it, and settled for a cross-legged sitting position. "Well, what's taking you so long? We don't have time to waste lollygagging, you know. Kee!"

The warlock did a quick mental calculation and determined that, while they didn't have time to 'lollygag', he did have plenty of time to kick Gorakinos again...hard.

------

Abitani could pinpoint the exact moment when the battle had turned against him. This didn't do him much good now that his bruised and bloody body was pinned to Stranglethorn's lush, verdant terrain by the weight of the troll axe thrower crouched over him with a vicious, murderous grin on his painted face, but Abitani was a professional and if he made a mistake he liked to know what it was so he wouldn't repeat it...and, if given the chance, this was one situation he did not want to repeat or even be a part of in the first place for that matter. A glance to his left revealed the crumpled corpses of two Hakkari zealots riddled with arrows, a silent testimony to the ferocity of the battle that had just taken place, while a look to his right treated him to the sight of the enormous plagued bear known as JuJu wrestling with a troll berserker and actually appearing to be winning albeit not at a speed that would save him. The hunter did not, much to his immediate disappointment and rapidly dwindling probability of survival, see a band of Horde adventurers charging to his rescue, a hunting party of rival trolls whose unexpected arrival would give him a chance to escape in the confusion, or a pair of swallows carrying a coconut on a string and through sheer good luck accidentally dropping it on his attacker's head. Granted, the third was unlikely to begin with, but it had style and now was as good a time as any if not better to dream.

"Ju know, mon, I was expec'din better from someone da claims to be Mandokir's son," the axe thrower remarked contemptuously, making a slitting motion a few inches in front of his neck with a throwing axe to indicate his intentions. He chuckled once, smugly. "Den 'gain, why complain o'er recei'ding a free meal, jah?"

Abitani grinned cockily and with false confidence, refusing to show any fear and hoping to buy himself some time. "I dunno 'bout dat, mon. Mebbe I be a rotten ol' dwarf usin an Orb of Deception, neh? Ju don wanna be eatin' stringy meat like dat, and you donna even know where I've been. Who's da say eating me won' give ya indigestion?"

The axe thrower punched him hard in the face, and blood flew as Abitani's head ricocheted painfully off the ground beneath him. "'Civilization' has corrupted ju, mon! Only a foolish troll wouldja take indigestion seriously! I've eaten fellow trolls, humans, dwarves, gnomes, elves, orcs, and even a tauren or two and several naga, and ma stomach is fine! Boya, ju really are a zilly one, aren'cha?"

The troll hunter gazed upward at his tusked attacker through blurred vision and laughed insultingly, chortling occasionally interrupted by an aching wheeze. "Vu da foolish one, Gurubashi. Ju're...merely a savage, while me and meh tribe, we got class an' honor." Feeling a tingling, pulling sensation overcome him, Abitani smirked triumphantly. "And...da Darkspear have friends too."

A confused expression crossed the axe thrower's face as he saw his victim fade beneath him, and as he realized what was happening he hurriedly brought his axe down to cleave the intruder in two but by then it was too late. "NOOOOOO!!!" the troll shouted angrily, trophy and meal denied.

And then a coconut that a pair of swallows had been carrying on a string accidentally fell from the sky and crashed into the axe thrower's head, knocking him unconscious.

------

For a moment that was both less than a second and more than a lifetime all Abitani knew was a cold so chilling it burned, the maddening roar of ethereal storms, and the chaotic assault of every color he had ever imagined and then some playing across his vision. The moment passed, though, and before he could make any sense of his trip through the Twisting Nether the troll hunter found himself in the bitter night air of Silithus with his pet bear beside him. There was a campfire blazing, and in front of it with a hand-shaped imprint on his cheek and an unusually displeased looking succubus hovering over him with a needle was Maggotface. Nearby was a cackling wolf he recognized as Gorakinos chasing his own tail, and a grumbling Terminos stood off to the side, frown so severe that the troll found himself worrying that it might get stuck in that position.

Abitani exchanged a quick look with JuJu. "Me think d'at mebbe we were better off in da Vale," he muttered, not sure whether he was joking or serious. And then he passed out from his injuries and the recent sensory overload.

------

Deep within the tunnels of Hive'Ashi, a large, heavyset form moved with a stealthiness that any human would've believed impossible for someone so tall. Unfortunately for the furtive figure, the silithid had no such ingrained assumptions, and the covert agent found himself forced to use invisibility tricks, cloaking gadgets, and a stick of incense that simulated the smell of the hive's porous caverns to travel unnoticed. Doing so wasn't an inconvenience or a nuisance, but the silent prowler much preferred letting the people he was sneaking past do the work of pretending he wasn't there. Still, a mission is a mission, and if he needed to employ a few gizmos and extra techniques in his vast repertoire of skills so be it.

As he searched the corridors which hummed with an alarming amount of activity, the scout's thoughts briefly turned to the three mercenaries he'd been following. He had originally planned on covertly engineering an escape for them as a form of thanks for unknowingly leading him this far, but the brewmaster's rampage had made that unnecessary. Now that they were likely free, though, it was only a matter of time before the Freelancers made their own attempt to recover the chest, and the horned bovine was determined to reach it first. Although the two Forsaken and orc didn't know it, their employer had been one of SI:7's most skilled agents before the plague changed the course of her life, and he was keen to know what was so important that she'd hire a band of mercenaries to travel to the other side of the continent to retrieve it. With a checkered past like hers and her current employment in the Undercity, it could be just about anything and if it posed a danger to the Horde...he'd destroy the chest and make it appear that the silithid were responsible. No one would be the wiser although the travelers he'd been trailing wouldn't receive the expected compensation for their efforts, but it would be worth it if it meant preventing a dangerous object from potentially falling into the wrong hands.

The tauren rogue's musings came to an end as he finally spied the chest he'd been looking for sitting atop a pile of dead bodies and scattered objects that the silithid must've carried away from their raid. Why they had done so puzzled and worried him, but there were others hard at work attempting to figure what these bugs were up to and he was confident the answer would be learned eventually. For now he had other matters to attend to and, when he was certain there were no other creatures nearby, he quietly approached the small box. As he drew closer and examined it, his interest grew. The locking mechanism was a marvel of gnomish engineering and would've been unpickable to a lesser rogue. As was, even with his 300 + X lock picking skill it took him a whole fifteen seconds longer than usual to unlock the lid. Hearing the clicks that signified cogs spinning into place and hinges releasing, the bullish humanoid slowly opened the chest so as not to set off any booby traps that might be in place and gazed intently at its contents.

"!"

The tauren was so surprised that he stood in stunned silence for well over a minute, all thoughts of stealth completely forgotten as he boggled at what he'd found. Then, not making a sound, he very carefully relocked the chest, set it back on the pile where he'd found it, and disappeared into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Freelancers -- A True Story That Never Happened

Author: Rowan Seven (Gorakinos)

Rating: PG-13

Teaser: The Freelancers learn that there are some contracts they'd be better off refusing.

Disclaimer: The following story is set in the world of Blizzard's Warcraft series. All characters, concepts, and environments are copyrights of their respective owners. I am not making any money off this piece of fiction. Information is used freely from the Warcraft games, books, and RPG series, and spoilers may be present in the following tale.

Author's Notes: The desire to write something about my main "World of Warcraft" character and the Freelancers guild on the U.S. Cenarion Circle server has been with me for some time now, and this idea suddenly appeared in my head with such intensity that I felt compelled to begin. To my fellow Freelancers, I hope you enjoy this tale. It has been a joy to play the game with you, and although the guild has since disbanded we had some pretty good times we can be proud of.

Addendum: I started writing this story in the Fall of 2005 (back when Zul'Gurub was relatively new content) and finished several months ago.

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The burning sun slowly rose over the horizon, but it made little difference in Silithus as of yet. Surrounded by rugged mountains and covered in sand and stone as the land was, the burning rays would not be felt for hours until the celestial orb was high overhead and transformed the barren desert into a sweltering wasteland. Silithus was an inhospitable abode, unwelcoming and unforgiving to nearly every species that was foolish enough to come to Kalimdor's last frontier, and few creatures managed to survive the land's harsh demands let alone thrive. In short, one would have to be insane to consider living there, which suited Vyral the Vile just fine. As a professional madman, he actually liked Silithus and affectionately called it home. True, the dredges could be annoying at times especially during their mating season, and you had to be careful to stay out of the occasionally wandering Anubisath's path unless you wanted to be stepped on, and the constant hum the crystal's emitted could become painfully grating after a while, but the villain reasoned that every place had its potential drawbacks, and when you thought about it was there really such a big difference between dark forces of unfathomable evil and a nosy next door neighbor?

The baleful overlord didn't think so as he stood outside in the biting cold of the desert's morning, torn rags of the day before replaced by a fresh set of Dreadmist garments and mask that did little to hide the scowl etched on his shadowed features. Gazing at him with expressions of alternately fear, confusion, and occasionally irritation at being awake at such a forsaken hour were row after row of cultists in neat formation, waiting to learn why they'd been told to gather here and what their orders would be. They wouldn't have to wait long.

"Today we repay the grievous insult that's been dealt us!" Vyral the Vile declared loudly, not even bothering to hide the anger in his tone. "Yesterday was a disaster that has sent the Twilight's cause back by weeks if not more than a month, and it was also an embarrassment! The Hammer's best and brightest...defeated utterly by a single foe! Consider yourselves lucky that the Abyssal Council refuses to acknowledge that yesterday ever happened! We must be avenged!" he shouted, becoming silent for a moment so he could hear the ensuing cheers and shouts of enthusiasm more easily. The moment turned into a minute as the sounds he expected did not come, and his scowl deepened. "Oh for crying out loud, don't tell me that the chance to obtain vengeance doesn't excite you and send your blood pounding through your veins...or your next closest equivalent bodily components for those of us who don't have veins or blood?" A few of the lesser elementals and non-humanoid members of the cult nodded their heads, glad they weren't being excluded. "Surely you're not hesitant to mete out our unholy revenge?" Vyral questioned, glowering crossly. The responses weren't what he'd been hoping for.

"We still need to recover from our injuries!"

"We should wait until we can summon reinforcements from the Abyssal Council again!"

"Let's consult with the other Twilight camps and stage a joint attack after a week or more of plotting!"

"Wasn't being beaten to a bloody pulp once already enough?" -whimper-

"Um...can't today, I'm afraid! I'm scheduled to raid Blackwing Lair with the Defias and the Dark Strand Cultists!"

As one, the assembled crowd turned to stare at the cultist who'd spoken, and the young fanatical human scratched the back of his head nervously with his right hand, laughing fretfully. "We are, really! We've even prepared the Greater Fire Protection and Swiftness Potions and everything else we'll need! All that's left is to meet outside Blackrock Mountain and assault Nefarion's fortress!" he protested unconvincingly, a weak smile on his face. "So...um, wish us luck?"

"SILENCE!" Vyral the Vile screamed, voice laden with vexation. "All of you should be ashamed! We're villains, not five-year-old kids who need their hands held! When someone insults us, we torture them! When someone threatens us, we strike them first! And when someone attacks us, we utterly eradicate them from this plane! For the pride and reputation of the Twilight's Hammer, we must punish those who've wronged us! I could care less about your injuries or summoning reinforcements or sharing our recent defeat with our compatriots or risking injury again or...'raiding' Blackwing Lair! All that matters now is vengeance!" He slammed his fist into the palm of his right hand for added emphasis.

One of the braver cultists tentatively asked a question. "But sir, how are we going to avoid another loss? We were no match for the brewmaster yesterday when we were at full strength, and we have nowhere near that number this morning!"

The sinister mastermind sighed tiredly. "Do you take me for a fool who would send his followers on a mission of almost certain failure?" he asked ominously. No one dared answer, and he continued on, tone filling with wrath. "Idiots! The brewmaster is insignificant, merely an accessory to the harm that has been inflicted upon us by those three mercenaries we imprisoned! The pandaren and his entire race will suffer when the rightful masters of this world are liberated, but for now they are irrelevant. That overstuffed bear attacked us to rescue those two Forsaken and their orc companion, and it is they who will feel our vengeance! We will march across all of Silithus if needed to find them, and when we do..." Vyral grinned grimly and turned to begin their journey, but another question delayed him.

"And 'hen we do...what next 'den?" queried a curious troll recruit, standing hunched over near the front of the crowd with a puzzled expression on his face.

"I deliberately left it ominously open-ended so your imaginations could fill in the unspoken silence!" the encumbered overlord yelled, conjuring a sphere of flame and hurling it at the unprepared cultist for good measure. As the scent of singed skin spread and smoke rose into the air, Vyral opened his mouth again and spoke with false sweetness. "Any more questions? No? Good. Now, move out! We have a lot of ground to cover!" He strode off, and the cultists -- relieved at learning that they weren't going to be fighting the pandaren again anytime soon -- followed.

------

Dear Diary,

I feel like I've been hexed, cursed, and then kicked in the stomach by a satyr, and for all I remember of last night I very well could have. I've tried asking Maggotface and Terminos what happened after I entered my trance, but their only answer is raucous laughter. At the very least, though, we appear to have been successful. Abitani and JuJu have joined our ranks now, and the troll hunter has come up with what he calls a 'cunning plan' that'll enable us to sneak by the silithid without any problems. How is still a mystery to me, but Abitani caught the first wyvern flight to Gadgetzan this morning and should be back any hour with the materials he needs to get started. Thankfully, he doesn't seem upset at being summoned halfway across the world to help us out. Apparently, he was thinking of traveling to Silithus soon anyway, and he claims that this'll give him a chance to scout the area before he returns to do more serious exploring once his business with the Zandalar Tribe is concluded. While waiting, we were able to retrieve our mounts who have fared about as well as a skeleton horse and timber wolf in a hostile desert can be expected to. Better than expected, perhaps, if you factor in there not being any bodies of water available for them to wash the sticky insect goo off themselves. Ew. I would write more, but I have a splitting headache and need to discourage JuJu from gnawing on Maggotface's leg before he actually has to use his 'trusty wooden leg'. Oh, the joys of being a Freelancer...

------

"That's your cunning plan?!" Gorakinos and Terminos spoke simultaneously, for once agreeing on something. On the warlock's shoulder, a surprised Noktog withdrew a miniature pocket watch and checked to see if it was time for the world to end. Reassured that it wasn't, the imp shrugged and chalked up the unusual concurrence as merely a random coincidence.

"Ja, dat be it," Abitani confirmed, returned from Gadgetzan and now standing on the perimeter of Hive'Ashi with his fellow mercenaries. Beside him, JuJu growled plaintively, impatient to get started and held back from charging in and taking on the entire nest himself only by the hunter's urgings for restraint. "Ju got a problem wid it?"

"It's the most ludicrous thing I've heard of, and I've been traveling with Gorakinos and Maggotface for over two weeks!" Terminos criticized, tone incredulous as he scowled again. "Tell me, is it now a guild requirement to be insane? I haven't seen anything recently to prove otherwise, I'll tell you."

The warlock threw up his hands in disgust and stalked off, and Gorakinos picked up where he'd left off. "Not to be rude, but I'm inclined to agree with our notably vocal associate. This plan of yours is ridiculous, even going by our usual standards! It's untested, completely unpredictable, utterly absurd, and-"

"Ish -hic- pure genius!" Maggotface exclaimed enthusiastically, clapping Abitani on the back once supportively with his mended hand. "Howsh you always come up with brilliant stuff like thish?"

The troll hunter winked conspiratorially. "I could tell ju, but den I'd have da kill you." He chortled for a moment before refocusing on the shaman. "I know it be an especially cunning plan, mon, but my cleverness not be something ju need da be afraid of. Jus' trust me, okay? Unless ju have some'ding better da propose?" This was asked with a half-challenging note.

Gorakinos grinned and swelled with self-importance. "As a matter of fact," he began in a shrewd voice, "I think we'd be better off if we made a detour to Un'Goro Crater, set a trap and lure a devilsaur to the hive, release a legion of captured bloodpetals to add to the chaos, and in the resulting confusion-"

"I've changed my mind! Abitani, your plan is the second most ludicrous thing I've heard and should work fine!" Terminos shouted hastily, unwilling to listen to any more foolishness. "Just please, for the love of all that's unholy, let's hurry up and finish this abysmal quest we're on!"

"Fine wid' me," Abitani replied confidently, looking around to see if there were any further criticisms of his scheme. Maggotface looked excited, Gorakinos appeared skeptical and slightly put out, Noktog gave the impression that he had better things to do with his time and was only hanging around to humor everyone, Terminos wore his customary frown again, and JuJu looked like he wanted to kill something...which was about normal. Convinced that there would be no more protests, the troll hunter spoke inquiringly, "Shall we begin, friends?"

Gorakinos sighed, Maggotface cheered, and Terminos scowled, but following Abitani's lead the three raised the potions that the troll had handed out earlier to their mouths and drank. A few seconds later, four humanoid skeletons, a skeletal bear, and a bony imp stood where the mercenaries had been.

"I still think this is a ludicrous idea," the shaman muttered, not even attempting to guess how Noggenfogger's Elixers worked their magic.

"Nobody will -hic- recognizesh me!" Mafo remarked cheerfully, having traded one state of undeath for another.

"We be skeletons wid' style, mon," Abitani cackled, looking unusually fearsome as he did so. A growl from an impatient and even more fearsome JuJu interrupted him, though, and the hunter shrugged nonchalantly. "Well den, time to be goin."

"About time," the Forsaken warlock mumbled, stepping forward and taking the lead to ensure that there would be no more dawdling. "The sooner this farce of a party achieves its objective and disbands the better, in my opinion. I've already been soaked, chased by large carnivorous animals, shadow bolted, imprisoned, and forced to endure more nonsense than even the rivalry between gnomes and goblins has dreamed up. I dread what'll happen next if this doesn't end soon."

------

"I fear what will happen if we don't end this quickly," Commander Mar'alith, night elven leader of the Cenarion Circle's military forces stationed in Silithus, spoke as he gazed intently at the desert's ominous landscape from his balcony. His face, already touched by lines of worry etched by time and grief, looked even graver than usual. "My scouts have reported that a powerful elemental of air has materialized to the northwest with a legion of lesser elementals under its command and is currently conscripting the native elementals of Silithus into its service. If not stopped, this elemental lord will soon have an entire army under its command, and with the Twilight Hammer's established ties to such primal creatures I fear that it is only a matter of time before these two forces unite and combine their strength to launch an assault upon Cenarion Hold.

The commander's gaze hardened, and he clenched his fists in anger and determination. "I fear no enemy and have nothing but respect and admiration for my soldiers, but against a twin elemental and Twilight attack I cannot guarantee that this crucial position will hold. The situation is dire, and delay cannot be afforded. We must act and act quickly, or all might be lost. There is only one thing for us to do."

Mar'alith's aide nodded his head matter-of-factly, as if he heard solemn pronouncements and gloomy assessments all the time which, considering that this was Silithus, he may very well have. Predicting his superior's orders, he inquired calmly, "Shall I offer seven or eight gold pieces to adventurers who handle this problem for us, sir?"

The night elf commander did not speak for several seconds, and in the silence that followed one could've heard a pin drop. Slowly, he turned and stared intently at his assistant. "Do you honestly believe I'd leave something this important to vagrants of dubious trustworthiness and questionable skills?" Mar'alith asked incredulously.

"...10 gold pieces and a choice between three superior items for those who have honored or higher reputation with us, then?" the aide suggested levelly, not looking up from his notebook and thus completely missing the expression of sheer exasperation that passed across the veteran leader's face.

"Elune's grace save us all," Commander Mar'alith muttered, shaking his head once in dismay as he solemnly marched towards the door. "Save your 'gold pieces and superior gear' for the troops because they'll need them soon. The Cenarion Circle will deal with this threat ourselves in an appropriate military fashion so assemble the soldiers and prepare to ride. Those are my orders."

"But sir, practically everyone except the Scourge outsources these days, and the Scourge only doesn't because they have the largest labor force in the known world! Just look at how successful the Burning Legion has been with outsourcing and-" The night elf finally caught sight of the commander's increasingly irate face and changed track. "Aye sir, I'll have a garrison fully equipped and ready to depart in 30 minutes," he replied quickly. "Best of luck to you in this campaign." The aide saluted once as his superior walked through the archway leading back inside, mumbling quietly under his breath when he was confident he was alone, "Only in the army would they assign an economist to a military encampment."

------

Abitani was a firm believer that the impossible was merely waiting to be done. Whereas most people would hesitate or scoff at the idea of slaying Onyxia, vanquishing Ragnaros, or finding a good deal at an auction house, the troll hunter assessed problems analytically and quickly approached the questions of who, where, when, and how. If he felt it was worth asking, he'd throw in a 'why' too, but he was a mercenary and in that line of work there were some questions one didn't raise.

Therefore, when questioned by Terminos if he had any bright ideas how the four of them (six if you counted Noktog and JuJu) could search a hive occupied by a swarm of intelligent, malevolent insects which were known not to take kindly to strangers without suffering grievous bodily harm or -- far more likely -- being killed, the Darkspear had not responded with something along the lines of, "You be crazy, mon!" as a normal person might have. Instead, he'd carefully considered the problem and come up with, as he liked to call it, a 'cunning plan' that might see them through.

Abitani's 'cunning plan' was clearly identifiable as something that someone with a hunter's mindset would concoct. The blue-skinned troll had taken a page from his own experiences when crafting this scheme which essentially boiled down to feigning death whenever a silithid patrol drew near. However, he'd reasoned, while a lone troll playing dead might not attract overly unwanted attention, expecting no one to take a second look at an orc, two Forsaken, a bear, a demon, and a troll lying on the ground was a mite unreasonable. The feigning would have to be taken to a more convincing level, which had led him to Noggenfogger and his elixirs. Six skeletons of an orc, two Forsaken, a bear, a demon, and a troll lying on the ground was a different story, especially in light of how dangerous Silithus was, and if it didn't work they could always fallback on fighting tooth and nail for their lives.

In other words, Abitani's plan was so crazy it might just work, and working it was.

"I still can't believe this is actually working," Gorakinos whispered again disbelievingly as the group of mercenaries explored the subterranean world of Hive'Ashi, carefully noting their descent through the eerie, maze-like tunnels so they could find their way out again quickly. They rounded a cluster of eggs each larger than a fist which glowed a luminescent orange in the darkness, and the shaman felt a chill run down his spine. There was a taint to these creatures that filled his mystical senses with dread.

"Don't look a -hic- gift horsh in the moush," the skeleton that was Maggotface the Glutton retorted amiably, adding after his mind had contemplated the saying a bit further, "Unlesh ya plan on eating the horsh, of courssssh. Then you wansh to look a' the moush and every other -hiccup- parsh of the beasht to makesh shure it doesn't have the plague becaush ta plague spoilsh the meat."

"Grrr," the four-legged bony ursine walking beside them growled, quite proud of its plagued condition and insulted by the suggestion that any part of him was of inferior quality. Besides, if anyone looked at JuJu in the mouth, it was pretty much guaranteed that that would be the last sight they ever saw in this world.

"Dun worry, da warrior didn't mean anything by it," Abitani reassured his pet in soothing tones. "Ju be da strongest bear in d'ese parts, and I'm sure dat your flank be one o' a kind." He chuckled good-naturedly as JuJu playfully tried to bite his skeletal hand off. "Ha, dat be da JuJu I know!"

"Incoming!" Terminos warned urgently, and almost immediately everyone dropped to the ground and pretended to be dead which, because they appeared to be skeletons, was about as easy as it looked. A few seconds later three verdant winged sentries flew by and, as hoped, didn't take a closer look at the deceptive pile of bones. The living held their breath until the patrol was out of sight, while the two Forsaken reminded what remained of their lungs and respiratory system that oxygen was no longer required so stop complaining and shut up already before we replace you with newer, healthier lungs purchased from the Royal Apothecary Society.

JuJu was the first to rise, and soon the party was back on its feet and moving through the tunnels of Hive'Ashi as quietly as six rattling skeletons can move. Terminos took the lead because he was only one he trusted to stay focused and not alert the entire hive to their presence other than Abitani, and the troll was busy keeping his ursine companion calm and not attacking anything that looked even slightly aggressive. JuJu took challenges to his authority rather seriously, and his mere presence in the Plaguelands was enough to send the usually belligerent, maddened animals of the decaying land fleeing to the Alterac Mountains, a testament to the enduring memory of the bear's early life.

Over an hour passed, and still the mercenaries' descent into darkness continued, with only the sinister glow of the increasing number of silithid egg sacs and menacing ambience of the hive to guide their way. The tunnels twisted and turned so often as they burrowed into the earth that it seemed impossible that group of adventurers hadn't retraced their steps, but each chamber was different and almost tauntingly beckoned them on. The party of skeletons was unusually quiet as they walked. The warlock's insults were for once absent, the shaman's musings were silent, Abitani kept his thoughts and observations to himself, and Maggotface felt no desire to sing. Hive'Ashi and its mysteries weighed heavily on the travelers, stifling their normally ebullient spirits and resenting any out-of-place noises. This was an alien world that races like orcs and humans were not meant to see.

Finally, though, they rounded a corner and at last spotted the object of their search. Sitting where it had been left on top of the pile of dead cultists with no signs that it had ever been tampered with was a small wooden chest decorated by Stormwind's crest. Seeing it, Gorakinos resisted to the urge to shout from sheer joy. The end of their quest was at last in sight.

Slightly suspiciously, Terminos walked over to the coffer and tapped it lightly on the side to make sure this wasn't a trap. After having spent so much time with his insufferable partners, he suspected anything that looked like his torment might soon be over. Nothing happened, and he released a sigh of relief. The dark arcanist's next words were barely above a whisper. "Gorakinos, grab this chest and don't get cocky. We still need to bring it back to Orgrimmar in one piece."

The orc shaman gazed at the warlock with mirth. "Don't sound so worried, Terminos. Finding the chest was the hard part. The rest of this journey should be easy."

An inconceivable distance away, an indescribable entity of incomprehensible power once again stirred, turned its attention to Azeroth, boggled at the natives' willingness to challenge fate, and performed the cosmic equivalent of turning up the volume. After all, why pass up what would surely be a good show?

------

The Windreaver sensed the approaching forces of the Cenarion Circle, their numbers and purpose as clear to him as the air he weaved through. The aspect of the elemental that comprised his intelligence sorted through various tactics to meet the oncoming enemy and swiftly chose a course of action. The logical thing to do would be to fortify this position and wait for the druidic order to come to him, but such a plan went against the very nature of Al'Akir's servant. Wind was not a patient element and refused to stand still. It rushed from place to place, going around what it could not go through, and, whether gentle or aggressive, embracing everything in its path.

Unhesitatingly, the Windreaver gathered his minions and rushed forward across the shifting sands of Silithus, leaving a storm in his wake. Very soon now, the sounds of battle would fill the air, and the elemental general's roaring gale reverberated with notes of pleasure and eagerness.

------

The Freelancers and their warlock associate reached the surface without mishap, the chest firmly held in the skeletal grip of Gorakinos. Finding their way out of Hive'Ashi had proved much quicker than finding their way through it, and the few patrols they'd run into continued to be deceived by their feints. All that stood in their way now was the hive's sentries operating above ground and the miles of hostile terrain that lay between them and the Cenarion Hold, and once they reached the friendly (unless you were Maggotface) encampment the return trip to Durotar should be a breeze. Naturally, then, it was at this moment that things took a turn for the worse.

-swish--swish--swish--swish--swish--swish--swish--swish--swish--swish-

Reacting on pure reflex, the party dived to the side and narrowly avoided the onslaught of arrows that flew through the air towards them. Constantly moving so as to evade a follow-up barrage, Gorakinos sequestered the chest under his armpit and slammed a Windwall Totem into the sands as Abitani sprang to his feet and performed a series of intricate side-steps as he reached for his bow. Terminos, less agile than his partners, stayed low to the ground and summoned his magical energies to counterattack with a fury of dark spells. Maggotface and JuJu were already moving forward in a zigzag pattern, retracing the trajectory of the arrows, and they simultaneously issued screams of unadulterated rage once they spied the lithe form of their attacker.

Standing at a comfortable 41 yards away was a sight that had taunted and antagonized countless warriors of the Horde on far-flung battlefields, a haughty, infuriating figure whose image had been painfully seared onto the minds of numerous orcs, trolls, tauren, and Forsaken. Bow drawn and already stepping backwards to keep a distance between them, the night elf hunter drew another set of arrows from his quiver as his giant white cat growled aggressively. Maggotface and JuJu, their vision turning red in response to this maddeningly familiar adversary, doubled their pace and covered the distance between them in a few swift bounds, much to the surprise of the unfortunate hunter who soon learned to his further surprise as the magic of Noggenfogger's Elixers vanished in response to the hostile actions that the two Scourge minions he'd shot were in fact not servants of the Lich King but an incredibly angry Forsaken and bear. Before he could issue an apology or even utter a word the furious duo were upon him and his pet, and much violence and pain ensued.

"Maggotface, JuJu, stop! We don't have time for this!" Terminos shouted warningly, running over to the scene and forcibly pulling the warrior out of the ruckus. Next to him, Abitani had a much easier time calming down his bear who'd released his frustration on the now unconscious feline. Gorakinos joined them and looked around worriedly.

"Let me at 'em! Thash elf deserves to die!" Mafo spat hatefully, struggling to free himself from the warlock's surprisingly iron hold. "Give me one goosh reason why I sshouldn't killsh 'im!"

In response, Terminos let go of the warrior and gestured expansively around them. "Take a look around and see for yourself! I can count over a hundred good reasons right now, personally!"

Despite himself, the undead mercenary followed his companion's advice and looked at their surroundings. As he did so, his sunken eye sockets widened comically. Drawn by the noise and sounds of battle, the silithid had converged on their location and what looked like a growing army of the sinister insects was gathering on a hill behind them. Their gold, green, and blue carapaces shined as the sun's rays reflected off their colorful shells, and for a moment Mafo was blinded by their numbers and brilliance.

"...Okay, yoush convinced me," Maggotface answered solemnly. A little more hopefully, he asked, "Gotsh any more cunning plansh, Abi?"

"Yah mon, jus one," the hunter answered smoothly. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and opened his mouth to shout. "RUN FOR JA LIVES!"

They did so, trampling over the hapless night elf as they fled. The silithid followed, those not in the air also barreling over the distressed kaldorei. The hunter, rather wisely, decided to feign death right then, a feat made relatively easy by the state of his battered, injured body.

------

"How long do you think they'll continue chasing us?" Gorakinos asked anxiously, clutching the chest with his left arm as he ran, powerful green legs enabling him to keep up with Abitani's innate speed and the Forsakens' undead endurance.

Keeping pace beside him, Terminos turned and scowled. "Maybe if you'd drop Earthbind instead of Stoneclaw Totems we'd have found that out by now, you idiot! Honestly, what are you thinking?!"

The shaman spared a look behind him and searched for the last totem he'd planted. As he watched, half a dozen silithid drones detached themselves from the pursuing legion and pounced on the Stoneclaw Totem, reducing it to splinters and shards in less than a second. "I suppose Earthbind might be a tad better suited for this situation," he conceded begrudgingly, raising his free arm and channeling the power of ice through his hand to Frost Shock one of the monstrous insects that was pulling ahead of the rest of the host.

"Less talking, more running and fighting mon!" Abitani shouted from behind them. Having mastered the art of sprinting backwards, the hunter was putting his skills to good use and firing arrow after arrow at the silithid whom he never took his gaze off of. In front of the fleeing party, JuJu was mercilessly and swiftly dispatching the desert's normal hostile denizens that threatened to get in their way such as spiders, dredge worms, and the occasional wandering Anubisath (Gorakinos preferred not to wonder how the bear had taken down something three times his size in a tenth of a second and was instead for now merely thankful). Maggotface brought up the rear with shield and sword in hand, facing their pursuers as he ran and doing an amazing job of deflecting their projectiles and slicing off the appendages of any that came too close for comfort. The imp Noktog was doing what he did best, standing on his master's right shoulder and staying as small and inconspicuous as possible while lobbing fireballs as his master channeled the powers of shadow. Had there been any observers present, they might have been impressed by the group's ability to coordinate their actions in retreat and cover each other's backs, but chances are that they'd be running for their lives too. The silithid weren't known for making distinctions between targets.

Still, through sheer panic, determination, and enough totems to trip a small army, the mercenaries began to pull ahead, and the rampaging silithid gradually receded from view. Seeing this, Abitani released a sigh of relief, but then his sharp ears pricked up as he heard a distant and unwelcome shout.

"There they are! Kill them all!"

The hunter turned so he was facing ahead and scanned the horizon. The barely discernable vision of a sea of purple and blue cultist robes approaching dispelled the ebullience he had begun to feel. "Change course! We got Twilight friends o' yours approaching us at 12 o'clock, mon!"

"Great! Today just keeps on getting better and better!" Terminos shouted sarcastically, veering to the left. What he saw drawing closer from that direction only added to his frustration. "By Kil'jaeden's horns! Turn around and go the other way! We've got elementals approaching!"

Now running from the silithid, the Twilight's Hammer, and the Windreaver's followers, the Freelancers and warlock who had decided to shadow bolt Gorakinos in the face the next time the orc asked him to go anywhere at all found their path blocked yet again by the approaching sight of a fully armed garrison of the Cenarion Circle's best soldiers riding panthers into battle under the standard of Commander Mar'alith.

The mercenaries came to an abrupt halt and looked around for a sign of salvation. It wasn't forthcoming. "If ju take da army on our left and Terminos the one to da right and Mafo da one behind ju and I take da one in front..."

They all looked at Abitani as if he was crazy. In response, the troll hunter grinned and practiced feigning death. Terminos sighed, soulstoned himself, and got ready to summon an infernal. Gorakinos reached into one of his pouches and withdrew an Ankh of Reincarnation, holding the reagent as if his life depended on it...which it probably did. Maggotface grabbed the canteen attached to his belt which he'd filled with a drink from Sinjo before the pandaren took his leave and imbibed its alcoholic contents in one swift gulp. Noktog and JuJu exchanged glances.

"That is so unfair!" the imp complained bitterly, phase-shifting and leaping onto the plagued bear's back which he figured was probably the safest spot he could be right now. JuJu, unafraid and appearing eager, roared and readied himself for combat, the only confusion he felt coming from wondering which foe he should attack first.

And then, heedless of anything except their targets, the four legions arrived from the north, south, west, and east. With varying degrees of enthusiasm, the Freelancers and their companions charged into what would soon become a chaotic battle of epic proportions and almost certain death.

And much mayhem and pain ensued.

------

"And den what happened?" the troll priest known as Golli asked inquisitively, listening to the story intently from where he was seated around a sturdy but slightly stained wooden table inside the Orgrimmar Legitimate Businessmen's Club. Sitting to the Darkspear's right was a dark tauren warrior who was tall even for his race, and to the troll's left was Ignus, a bald Forsaken mage with pale skin that was remarkably intact for one of the undead. Terminos and Gorakinos sat on the other side of the table, the warlock hunched over with his head supported on his arms on the wooden surface and occasionally emitting a groan of pain and the orc with bloodshot eyes and skin more blue and black than green. Noktog was standing on the table and quietly munching on pretzels taken from a nearby bowl.

The shaman shuddered, the motion eliciting several sharp twinges of agony in his bruised body. "What do you think happened?" he asked pointedly. "There were silithid to the left of me, mad cultists to the right, and there I was stuck in the middle with my erstwhile companions as two separate armies of night elves and elementals rushed each other! It was total mayhem, pure and simple, with everyone trying to kill everyone else and so many bodies everywhere that it was impossible to tell who was doing what! And then...it got even worse."

Ignus blinked. "Worse?" he spoke curiously, a note of incredulity in his voice. "How is it possible for a situation like that to become even worse?"

Terminos weakly raised his head and gazed at the mage grimly, twin orbs glowing with a penetrating, unholy light. "Nelson the Nice walked by," he answered simply. Then, exhausted, his head fell back onto the table with a loud thud.

"Nelson the Nice?" the tauren repeated questioningly, sounding slightly amused. "That doesn't sound so bad..."

"That'sssh -hic- becaush you've never met 'im, Drauka!" Maggotflace slurred, spinning around on the bar stool he was on to face the impromptu gathering. Behind him, Goremug silently refilled the Forsaken's glass, mentally adding another digit to the bill he was going to send to Ishtallah during one of her saner moments. The undead warrior tilted his head and his upper jaw curved upward in a semblance of a conspiratorial grin. "Yoush see...Nelshon tha Nice ish actually a demon! Ishn't that right, Abitani?"

Abitani, from where he was tiredly leaning against the sleeping form of a content JuJu in the center of the bar, nodded his head. The chest over which they'd worked so hard to acquire was on the floor in front of the plagued bear, the party having agreed that the ursine beast probably provided better security than even the club's safe. "Jah mon, dat be correct. Nelson da Nice also be known as Solenor da Slayer, a nasty dreadlord."

"So you got caught up in a battle between sinister bugs, rampaging elementals, crazy cultists, ardent kaldorei, and a demon?" the tauren, Drauka, summarized, holding back a laugh. "Dare I ask who won?"

As one, Gorakinos, Terminos, Noktog, Maggotface, and Abitani all turned to look at the slumbering figure of JuJu. Ignus raised an eyebrow. "I see," he remarked passively, adding with a sudden smirk, "but I take it the rest of you didn't fare so well?"

The shaman glared at the mage but lacked the energy to hold it for more than a second. "Your powers of observation astound me," the green-skinned mystic muttered tersely, sarcasm pointed enough to sharpen an axe. "I can tell that nothing escapes your incredible perception. Of course we didn't fare so well!" he shouted, voice coloring with anger. "We were surrounded and outnumbered on all sides with arcane, fel, and divine magics flying through the air! It's a miracle that we're still alive, let alone feeling well enough to talk to you!"

"Whoa dere," Golli interjected, raising his arms soothingly. "Let's not let our tempers get the better of us here, neh? After all, there's still more of the story to hear," he spoke calmly, faint Zandali accent barely noticeable. "Please, do continue."

Gorakinos took a deep breath and slowly relaxed. "It's not worth the effort to describe the battle once the demon showed up," he said at last, a glazed over and distant look in his eyes as he remembered the recent past. "So much happened so quickly that even I can barely make heads or tails of it, and I was smack in the middle of that chaotic mess. Suffice it to say, though, at the end of it JuJu was the only one still standing and even he looked like he'd seen better days. Afterwards, the rest of us somehow managed to alternately limp and crawl to safety, and once we'd patched ourselves up as best we could we found our mounts and rode straight to Valor's Rest."

"I wanted to go back to the Cenarion Hold and get proper medical treatment," Terminos grumbled sullenly, words slightly muffled by his sleeves, "but between what had just happened and Maggotface's less than stellar reputation with the Cenarion Circle we figured we'd be better off staying out of their stronghold in the interest of self-preservation."

"And it worked out well enough anyway," the shaman remarked after a moment's pause, sounding pleased for the first time since he'd started telling this tale. "As it turns out, Navigator and Napili were nearby in Un'Goro and decided to spend the night at the small encampment too. We met up there, and they graciously opened a portal to Orgrimmar for us. In another stroke of good luck, Sablehawk and Lorilei were in the Valley of Spirits when we got back and persuaded a couple people to help cart us back to the Club. And...well, here we are now, with splitting headaches and looking worse than an engineer's workshop after experiments with dynamite waiting for our client to show up so we can finally get rid of this parcel!"

As if on cue, the door to the Orgrimmar Legitimate Businessmen's Club swung open and a vision of eternal splendor entered. Threnody D'usque now wore a black silk dress instead of the skintight jumpsuit Gorakinos had first seen her in, but she was as mind-bogglingly beautiful as ever. Alabaster skin brilliant and inviting, alluring raven hair an irresistible temptation, azure eyes an ocean in whose liquid, mesmerizing depths one would willingly drown, blood red lips a luscious promise of pleasure, and figure an enthralling picture of the utmost sensuality, she drew all male eyes to her with more force than a celestial body's gravitational field.

The lovely Forsaken woman icily ignored the stares and catcalls directed at her from the corners of the bar as she sashayed over to shaman and warlock's table, a smile of dangerous knowledge playing across her entrancing features. "Well done, Freelancers," she said approvingly, leaning down over the table so she was at eye level with Gorakinos. Drauka, Ignus, and Golli, possessing more self control than many of the club's other patrons, stayed where they were and watched the scene unfold in silence. It wasn't polite to interrupt another's business dealings, after all. "I heard you recently returned with my chest in your possession. Before we discuss payment, though, I'd like to see it."

The shaman, lust drowned out by the aggregate frustration generated by his recent ordeals and aching body constantly reminding him of the abuse he'd taken to fulfill their contract, coldly pointed to where JuJu lay sleeping. A look of desperate hope crossed the lady's face as she turned, an expression quickly replaced by pleasure as she saw the mostly undamaged wooden box. Seeing this, the orc's curiosity grew, and he made a decision.

"I think we deserve to know what's inside the chest before we hand it over," Gorakinos spoke as Threnody turned startled eyes on him. "My friends and I went through untold agony, searched through the shifting sands of Silithus, and nearly died several times to bring this coffer back to you, and I'd rather jump through a portal leading to the Great Dark Beyond than accept this contract again. The least you can do is let us know what we risked our lives for. Isn't that right, Terminos?"

The battered warlock looked up with bleary eyes and slowly nodded his head. "That's right. If there's some sort of mystical artifact of unbelievable destructive power in there, I want to be the first to know so I can use it against Gorakinos and preclude any possibility of being asked to work with him again."

Almost too fast to see, Threnody's bewitching face went from surprised to angry and annoyed before finally resolving itself into an expression of amused cruelty. "You really want to know what's inside the container?" she asked with sinister mirth, smirking. "Fine with me. Bring it over here and I'll open it, but be warned that I don't think you'll like what you see."

"We'll be the judge of that. Abitani? If you would?" Gorakinos requested, now even more curious. The troll hunter, having listened to the conversation and also wondering what his party had retrieved, rose, very carefully picked up the chest in front of JuJu, and brought it over to the table where he set it down and assumed a guarded stance next to Ignus. Threnody wasted no time, reaching for her coffer almost hungrily and gently tracing its sides, tapping several indiscernible indentations in the wooden structure to deactivate the lock. As Gorakinos, Terminos, Abitani, and the others seated at the table watched and the seconds passed their expectations grew and their thoughts turned to treasure, jewelry, weapons, and magic. Surely something with such a complicated security mechanism would be valuable? Finally, with a quiet click, the lock came undone, and the Forsaken beauty turned the chest so it was facing the warlock and shaman and raised the lid.

Inside was a blue Tickle Me Murloc doll.

One could almost hear the atmosphere of anticipation shatter into a thousand shards. Abitani blinked furiously, trying to make sense of this new piece of information. Gorakinos was livid, pure and simple. "We nearly lost our lives for this?!" he screamed, outraged, slamming his fists against the table. Watching from the bar, Maggotface swallowed the contents of his glass in one gulp. Golli, Ignus, Drauka, and Noktog sniggered with varying degrees of restraint. Terminos, exhausted and with his breaking point so far behind him now that Outland was closer, glowered. "None of this ever occurred," he said direly, daring anyone to contradict him. "As far as I'm concerned, all of this has just been one very long nightmare. Our trip to Tanaris and everything that happened after that is a story that never happened, and I'll send anyone who mentions this contract again on a one-way trip to the Twisting Nether!" Outburst finished, the warlock decided to escape from the cruelty that was reality and fainted, head colliding with the table with another loud thud.

"I told you that you wouldn't like learning the truth," Threnody remarked haughtily, rising to her full height and gazing down at the mercenaries with a teasing smile. "Still, you have my thanks and thanks of my daughter too."

"Daughter?!" the orc mystic exclaimed, shocked for the second time in as many minutes. His beautiful client gave him a pointed look as if to say, 'What? With a body like this did you really think I was single when alive?' Gorakinos tried picturing what the woman might've looked like when she was still human and before her first pregnancy and had to fight to prevent himself from joining Terminos in unconsciousness. Some things were too glorious for mortals to behold.

"Yes, my daughter," Threnody repeated, tone darkening and eyes filling with a tortured madness. "My lovely daughter who, thanks to the plague, is still in her terrible twos more than two years after her second birthday! My cute sweetie who has since becoming undead not gone a single day without asking for her cherished Tickle Me Murloc doll! My precious child against whom all the horrors of the Undercity pale in comparison and who motivates me to take revenge against the Scourge for making me a single parent forced to endure this unending torment!" Realizing that she was beginning to rant, the Forsaken collected herself and smiled sweetly. "So...how much do I owe you?"

Gorakinos gaped, mind reeling from what he'd just learned. The time they'd spent, the sacrifices they'd made, the humiliation and pain they'd experienced...it had all been for one cute plushie for an undead whelp? Abitani, taking the news in much better stride than his less experienced partner, chuckled once. "We jus' need a moment da consult, madam. We be right wid ju." He grabbed the orc by his right arm and pulled him over to the bar counter where Magggotface was. Quietly, he asked, "What seems like a good price to ju two?"

Mafo shrugged and hiccupped, and Gorakinos remained unresponsive. The hunter sighed and contemplated what a fair price for retrieving a children's doll might be, but before he could suggest any numbers the orc bartender Goremug leaned over and joined the conversation. "I think I might have an idea," he interjected smoothly. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said it, and vindictive smiles crossed the mercenaries' faces.

The Forsaken warrior acted first by spinning his stool around to face their patron. He leered lopsidedly. "Ashter careful -hic- conshider...der...ashion? Yeah, conshiderasssshion, my friiiends an' I only ashk that in a-kuchange for oush servishesh you paysh my tab."

"You want me to pay your bar tab?" Threnody questioned, frowning contemptuously at the drunken fighter. She considered this for a moment and nodded her head slightly. "Sure, why not? That doesn't sound so bad. How much is it?"

They told her.

"WHAT?!! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MINDS?!!"

As the mercenaries and their client haggled back and forth, Goremug heard a string of unfamiliar guttural laughter coming from one of the club's many corners and turned to investigate. For the briefest of moments, he thought he saw a tauren clad in an assassin's leathers, but a closer inspection revealed nothing and he chalked it up to a trick of the imagination. After all, everyone knows that tauren rogues do not exist.

The end.


End file.
